


A Length of Ribbon

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Job, Bookshop, Bruising, Chills, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Ghost Possession, Ghosts, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Inheritance, Kissing, Lesbian Relationship, M/M, Magical Garden, Mind Reading, Near Drowning, Nightmares, Separation Anxiety, Sickness, Snow Storm, Unknown Relatives, belligerent house, brief snow blindness, diary entries, mansion, princess balcony, quiet threatening ghost presence, resuscitation attempt, supernatural sightings, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6591901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom inherits a crumbling mansion and discovers the man who works on the property seems to know things he shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Manor House

**Author's Note:**

> A combination of these tumblr prompts:
> 
> Victorian au: A handsome stranger has awakened something deep within your breast. You do not know what it is, but it is awake, and it is aware.  
> I cluelessly inherited this huge mansion and everyone in the close-by village is mean to me and you take a pity on me and help me out.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, duskyhuedladysatan. I'll see you in a month <3

It was rather oppressive, really, the more he thought about it. All this fog and moaning moor, these rolling hills that might have been green were it not for the incessant gray of sky and cloud and drizzling rain that sapped everything of color. “Ominous”, he whispered, squinting at the vast swaths of land that were now his, the manor behind him feeling like a heavy shroud, a buckling monolith of stone and shingle, with windows like spectral eyes whose gaze he was hesitant to meet. There was a melancholy shrouding it all, he decided, an old beauty, something dusty and different from a time when it might have been quite splendid.

The day he first set foot on this land, curiously pebbled, he was still reeling from the news.

“A plot of cliff and earth,” the man, a solicitor, had written to him. “A distant relative of your father’s, a great, great aunt Minnow wished for it to pass on to whatever family remained. After your mother’s departure, it is you, Thomas. It is now yours. The manor house is in some disrepair, as she lived alone and kept but one servant, a woman who has rather quietly gone away with her small bundle of possessions. But I trust you will find it a reliable and comfortable home, especially at this daring new juncture in your life.”

Thomas had no recollection of such an aunt – Minnow? – or that he even had any remaining family. After his mother’s death while he studied double firsts in Classics and Library Sciences at university, he had believed himself to be alone. But British lineages tended to be vast, with branches forgotten, and really, he wasn’t very surprised. Here he stood, only a few days into his new ownership of this ‘plot’ of earth with hardly an idea how to go about tending it. A hundred acres stretching east from the cliffs, a little bit of the beach and sea, and what had his aunt done with such a possession? Nothing much, he mused, remembering his first walk through the place. Cracked, elegant slabs of swirled marble through the sweeping foyer, the tall staircase rising formidably from left to high right, vast landings for every floor with lavish, dark wooden railings of balconies that disappeared higher into the recesses, blinded by the towering skylight so high above. The fireplaces in every room, cold and deep, shoulder-height of hulking stone, the hearths sodden with soggy ash from long-ago fires. Sagging beds, crumpled drapes hanging moist against gold-leaf wallpaper, peeling and decrepit. Damp leaves gathered in the corners, stirred by the frosty winds through open doorways, a constantly shifting menace that bit at his heels. In the time the house had stood vacant, spiders had gained ownership of the far corners, their webs intricate and sturdy, silent watchers to his rising trepidation.

Everything grand but dank, the soaring cathedral ceilings – while opulent and entrancing, gold plates of intricate design – were spotted with moisture, marred with rot, a weighted feel about the place, age and time heavy in the air. Six bedrooms, including a massive master and adjoining bath. Porcelain tub with clawed feet and no curtain. An arching mirror in a gilded wooden frame. Curlicued windows with edge-frosted panes that peered out at the slowly shifting sea. It gave him chills just thinking about it. It wasn’t worth mentioning the enormous oiled portraits of people long dead that hung on the walls throughout the entire house, faces frozen, eyes moving with him. Gaze on his toes whenever he walked around the place, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. And it wasn’t just the spiders.

London would have been better. London would have seen him busier at work, socializing, happier perhaps. Despite his mother’s death, or perhaps because of it, he had delved almost ferociously into his studies, using the small inheritance left to him by the dregs of her estate to keep up his flat and live there until he earned his letters of degree, but just as he had been about to accept a proposal to work for a soon-to-retire librarian, the letter from the solicitor arrived with the news of his aunt.

And now he was the sole owner of this dilapidated mansion and its fields of salted land and rising crash and blow of seaside cliff. All he wanted were his books, but they would have to wait. Part of his inheritance included a small stipend that he used to bring three people in to clean the place. A monumental task, to be sure, but from their finished progress the air already smelled cleaner, the sheets laundered and replaced, the drapes dried and collected to the sides with soft velvet sashes. The absence of webs left a glaring reminder that the spiders might still be lurking about, watching, waiting. Leaves and other debris from years of inattention swept from the crevices behind heavy armoires and beneath hefty rugs, colorful threads fraying in patches. Though there was no sunlight to speak of, a brightness had taken hold in the rooms, the shadows in deeper relief with the watery light, and the smell wasn’t nearly so unpleasant anymore. Throwing open the windows of the lower floor relieved the stagnant odor and replaced it with a crisp sea wind, cold and chasing around the sudden corners and wide corridors, a whistling that followed him about and made him pause, straining to hear. Was that a voice? But no, it couldn’t have been. It was just the wind.

Inquiring about employment in the village that abutted his vast property – a small hamlet with only a couple dozen houses, a grocer, a baker, a butcher, an iron smith, a school, and to his immense relief, a bookshop – had cemented his decision to move at all. Had he been rejected, Thomas might not have accepted the house and remained in the city. The bookshop was of a respectable size, with narrow aisles and shelves that scraped the ceiling. Such a tight environment could easily have led to clutter and deterioration, but the owner, Mr. Wimple, was steadfast, astute, and tidy. A graying man in his sixties, Mr. Wimple hadn’t even bothered reviewing the list of education and references Thomas attempted to hand him, stating simply, “You are a man of books. I can see it on you.” What he saw, Thomas wasn’t sure, but after explaining about his inheritance and moving to the country from London, Mr. Wimple had nodded agreeably and offered him a position keeping the place free of dust and lifting heavy boxes.

“And you will organize. Always organize,” the man said, shuffling behind the counter and to the office beyond.

When Thomas wasn’t at the shop, he was familiarizing himself with his new home, peeking into nooks hidden behind curious waist-high doors, discovering hidden rickety steps that led into smaller rooms that seemed to serve no purpose but to hold more and more things. The attic, an enormous space with several windows facing the sea, was burgeoning with relics of decades’ past. Sorting through chests of cracked clothing and old dolls, heaps of stained paperwork with spidery handwriting, boxes of curling photographs of people with age-whitened eyes, backs stiff with aristocracy, he would struggle to breathe under the enormity of so much history. All this vastness, the rooms and the library and the foyer and the attic and the cavernous kitchen – it was too much, at times, and he would find himself pushing through the front door, sliding down the front steps to gulp in air.

He hadn’t had anxiety like this since his first years of boarding school as a child, when he’d experienced crippling loneliness for the first time, dependent on only himself, and now again as a property owner of a house he swore on some nights was alive.

Measuring his breaths, blinking away the dryness in his eyes, it was then that he noticed the speck in the far distance, just before the tall edge of the forest. Squinting, he shielded his gaze against the white glare of stormy sky. A cabin, maybe. A shed. He couldn’t really tell, his eyesight straining and unaccustomed to distances farther than the page of a book.

It was too late to investigate now. With a hand splayed on his chest, he waited a moment for his heart to calm before trudging up the steps and back into the dark interior of the house.

**

And then there were the nights.

There was something vaguely threatening about sleeping alone in a house suited for more than half a dozen people, the floors below echoing in their emptiness while he lay rigid and tight under the blankets in his room just beneath the attic. It wasn’t that he heard things – all old houses made noises, creaks and ticks and rumbles – but that it was hard to sleep when he was freezing.

He couldn’t build a fire. He didn’t know how. There was much he didn’t know how to operate in his new home – wall sconces, the oven, some of the window latches that appeared hundreds of years old. He’d only barely managed to turn on the rusted faucet for the bathtub, the pipes groaning and shaking along the wall before water finally burst from the fount and guzzled in waving torrents into the basin. Shivering, wash, wash, fingertips blue. Drying his goose-pimpling skin and scurrying under the covers.

But even he knew that wet wood was impossible to light, and he hadn’t been able to find any matches anywhere. The September rains were arriving with their cut of cold winds and twisting lightning strikes. He’d never lifted an ax in his life, much less traipsed into the trees to chop wood like any other countryman. The skies were molten with clouds bruised black as he stared out the front windows, coat clutched snug under his chin, plumes of breath fogging the glass in front of him. It was a reprieve, then, to ride his bicycle to work and hedge from one bookshelf to the next in the warm confines of the small shop, hearing Mr. Wimple babble on about the war and declining interest in books.

“There must be many a treasured token in that big fancy house of yours,” he commented one day as Thomas breathed on reddened knuckles to warm them. “I’ll bet she had a library.”

“My aunt?” Thomas said, bending for a stack of books to place on the shelves. “Yes, she had a reading room. But some of the books have gone to seed. Withered with the damp. Illegible, even. I’m not sure how long the house sat empty while her estate was figured out by the solicitors.” He’d salvaged the books still in good condition, but tossed the others in the trash, planning to add his own books to the room on the ground floor.

“Is a shame,” Mr. Wimple sighed. “She was something of a recluse, to be sure. And gravely ill, toward the end of it. But none of us knew her, only in passing. She never visited the village. It was always that mute servant of hers, the woman with the long black braid. A little unnerving, if you ask me.”

“Yes, I had heard mention of a servant. Did she live on the grounds?” he asked, thinking of the cabin he’d seen by the edge of the woods.

“I can’t rightly say. But it would be untoward, don’t you think? And counterintuitive, considering how many rooms the place must hold. No, I can’t rightly say.”

The conversation had died off and Thomas turned his focus on his duties, slightly dreading the end of the day when he would bike home, back to the cold and the vacant. He was comforted, regardless, at the gentle weight of the box of matches he’d acquired, sitting solid in his pocket.


	2. The Findings

Meals on the coal stove were quick and flavorless. He made a pale soup with strings of some kind of green leaf and bits of cabbage, cold cheese sandwiches, bites of hardening bread. Most of it left uneaten on the scarred wooden work bench in the center of the kitchen, a surface he imagined many sumptuous meals had been prepared by hands far more competent than his own slim ones, soft and edged with ink from the books he handled, in the years when this mansion had been brimming with life and parties.

The scullery, with its chipping tiled walls and creaking wrought-iron appliances, its stores of molding food, dried rice, crumbling vegetables, soot-spotted ceiling and a penchant for wall-deep groans, it intimidated him slightly, not knowing where to even begin organizing it all and making it operational. There were mice, he was sure of it.

He drank lots of water, pumping it from an ancient lever protruding from the wall next to the wash basin. Hesitant at first, examining the liquid for signs of corruption or filth, he found the water to be fresh and surprisingly quenching, his thirst abating only after several cups. He thought fondly of London and its many choices of quick and delicious cuisine. His life at university had consisted of reading and writing, lectures and food served to him by flushed-cheeked waitresses off campus, or sweat-collared matrons in the mess hall. Shelving books, biking along the bumpy, hilled road that led into town, stepping gently up the sweeping staircase to his room, he fantasized of seasoned meats and steamed vegetables, of hot sandwiches and steaming soup. Still too shy around the people of the town he now lived by, he hadn’t ventured to try any local food, imagining he would be looked upon with disdain for being a stranger.

Another week passed and he discovered amidst dust clouds a hidden trapdoor in a small niche up in the attic. More papers and books with strange titles like _Séances and the Occult, Mediums among Us, Spirits and the Passage of Time,_ even onion-skinned newspapers dated decades earlier with articles about mysterious lights in the sea fog and a blurry sighting of a ship at anchor for a day before disappearing. All rubbish he discarded in piles he would need to cart down to the main floor one trip at a time. He never spent long in the attic, his skin crawling with unease at the giant space cluttered with years’ worth of objects collected and forgotten over time, some covered in sheets looking ominously like figures in the half-light, staring at him.

Peering out through the window, he took in the sea, disturbed and tossed about by storm winds gathering speed. Already the house was dropping in temperature, and he pulled his woolen scarf tighter around his neck, his nose turning pink at the tip.

Down the stairs for another sleepless night, hungry and freezing, turning side to side, the cold chasing every spare inch of skin through tufts in the sheets. And the hallways would creak, and the wind would whistle, and somewhere outside the cliffs withstood the onslaught of sea and rain.

**

The titles of the books he found in the attic stayed on his mind in the days that followed. After promising Mr. Wimple he would bring down any books he thought might go well with his collection at the bookshop, Thomas returned to the library before dusk.

A long room piled high with volumes, it was split into two levels by a dazzling mezzanine that skirted the walls and came to meet at a short staircase before an enormous rose window of green and red stained glass. It cast the library in hushed tones, small pockets of darkness on the upper balcony requiring oil lamps to read by. Throughout the space, soft-cushioned sofas and flower-sewn chairs sat for one’s comfort, still life oil-paintings on leaning easels stood enshadowed under the eaves of the mezzanine.

Elegant clutter, all of it, mired in dust.

Maps and a globe of the world lay open on a workstation in the middle of the room, and most of the spines reflected topics of surly romance or maritime travel, a few on geographical fauna and wildlife. None were of Thomas’s interests or what he studied while in school, so he set aside a pile to donate to Wimple’s shop. He and the old man had begun to foster a rather congenial relationship, working well around each other, keeping inventory and helping customers locate books or articles. The bookshop seemed to also serve as a kind of library for the village, and perhaps some new books would be a welcome change to the few people he had begun to recognize as regulars.

He had tried prying into what Mr. Wimple knew of his aunt, but it was obvious the man knew very little about her.

“I found the strangest thing in the attic the other day,” Thomas said, admitting to the books of supernatural interest. “There were even a few newspapers from ages ago. I wonder if they have any value.”

Mr. Wimple shrugged. “It doesn’t surprise me, Thomas. A lot of spooky things were said about your aunt’s house.”

Thomas slowed in his work. “Spooky?”

Wimple adjusted his glasses and waved a hand dismissively. “Pish posh, if you ask me. Rumors fueled by sightings of that woman in her service and her dark eyes. Folklore, even. Tales of ghostly lights and foggy ships and other such nonsense.”

“That’s exactly what the newspaper articles were about,” Thomas said quietly, climbing down from the ladder he used to reach high shelves. “A ship at anchor that disappeared without a trace. Lights flashing by the house. My aunt must have been a young girl when all this happened.”

“Perhaps so. During the war. Many things went unexplained in those years. People’s suspicions were high, fear and panic leading to half-truths and outright lies. Your aunt’s house is rather peculiar, all alone on that cliff, all that land and those acres of forest. Tall, immense trees, aren’t they? Dark and thick. Anything could be said to be there and it wouldn’t necessarily be true. Besides, you’ve lived there now for some time and nothing seems to be the matter, eh? All things said to make others afraid and lend for a good story.”

Thomas quieted and gave a simple nod, not exactly willing to share with Mr. Wimple his own misgivings about the house, the noises he sometimes heard and the curling dark that crept about the entire place, driving him up the stairs every evening to the relative safety of his room and its steady moonlight, the flicker of his candles appearing to barely hold back whatever threat might be at bay. Things he suppressed for the sake of logic. And yet, he wouldn’t dare head to the floors below after retiring for the night, not until the sun had risen again the next morning. 

He was buttoning his waistcoat just after dawn one day when he heard a tremendous pounding rise through the floorboards. Straightening, he cast wide eyes at his boots, imagining the house had given a short tremulous sigh at the sudden racket.

Hurrying down the stairs, he tossed on his coat and shook out the lapels as the pounding echoed hollowly to the ceiling above him. Strangely, it was coming from the front door. He paused at the base of the staircase, somewhat alarmed at the thought of a visitor from town, but forced himself to recover in the chance that it might be Mr. Wimple for some reason.

Unclasping the large brass lock, he pulled on the handle and opened the door wide, trying not to wince at the cold gust of air that rushed in.

A man stood there, one foot resting easily on the lowest step, the other planted firmly on the barren ground. Hip canted at an angle, the man was tall with lean muscles and a long torso, waist tapering low from shoulders wide and strong. The lower half of his face was obscured by wild dark scruff, his hair shifting around his ears in soft waves, and his eyes, when he turned and cast them upon Thomas, were squinted and impossibly blue.

“May I help you?” Thomas said, pulling his coat tighter around himself. This ridiculous cold, seeping, seeping—

The man’s eyes shifted to Thomas’s hands, clenched and trembling slightly, and then back to his face.

“Where’s the missus?” Voice like the deep and rusty gouge of nail on stone.

Thomas frowned. “I beg your pardon? I am not married.”

“Missus Minnow. Where is she?”

_Oh._ Shaking his head gently, he said, “I’m sorry, but my aunt has passed away. More than a month ago. I’ve inherited her house, and I live here now. Are you from the village?”

The man’s brow lowered, gaze falling to the front steps. Thomas took a moment to study him further, noting his large hands covered in dirt, his trousers fitted but worn at the knees and stained – was that blood? – his long-sleeved camisole a faded blue with buttons of broken pearl at the chest. He was dressed as if the cold didn’t affect him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Did you know her well? I’m afraid I didn’t know of her at all. I feel rather silly here suddenly, with all this.” He looked up at the foreboding height of the house, a sordid type of spired gothic cathedral, and gave a small shrug, his sentence stopping short.

The man said nothing, but lifted a hand and wiped brusquely at his eyes, quickly. He shook his head and stepped away from Thomas, who couldn’t help but think the man looked so warm, despite his attire and the devastating chill in the air. Something about his skin. His body gave another involuntary shudder.

And when the man glanced sharply at him in the next instant, he jumped slightly, cheeks reddening.

“I’m Thomas,” he said quietly, just to fill the heavy silence. He didn’t know who this man was, or what he was doing at his doorstep inquiring about his aunt, but frankly, it was nice to talk to someone other than Mr. Wimple. He’d greatly missed the quiet company of others. And one so different as this stranger, unearthly even.

The man kept his face angled to the ground, half-turned away from the house, but he finally glanced back at Thomas and gave a short nod. “Christopher.”

Taking a longer step, he headed away from the house and down the hill to the lower meadow leading to the edge of the woods. Watching him, Thomas squinted and kept Christopher in his sights, shivering still and flummoxed at the entire exchange. How very odd, he thought, wondering from where the man had come. How did he know his aunt?

The man approached the cabin that Thomas had been meaning to investigate for days now, and it was with a jolt that he realized Christopher might actually live there. Bending low, Christopher heaved something bulky from the ground just outside the front door and up onto his shoulders, the protruding rack distinguishing it as a deer. His stomach gave a tremendous growl and Thomas winced, not quite remembering when the last time was that he had eaten.

When the man’s head snapped in his direction just then, he jumped again and hurried into the house, that penetrating stare – even from a distance – much too nerve-wracking.


	3. The Fire Tender

Now that he was aware of someone else’s presence on his property, Thomas was more at ease in the house. The man – Christopher – must have had some kind of arrangement with his aunt, allowed to live on her land in exchange for services, most likely hunting game and property maintenance. It brought to mind his concern about paying the man if he considered staying on with Thomas. He hadn’t much money saved, and what he earned under Wimple’s employ was what he used for his current expenses. Hiring on an extra set of hands hadn’t even occurred to him until he saw Christopher standing in the yard looking entirely more capable of looking after the place than Thomas did. But after the news of his aunt’s death, would Christopher even wish to stay?

It was a mystery that the solicitor hadn’t made mention of another person in his aunt’s employ. Perhaps no one had known of him. As it was, Thomas had been living here for weeks and even he hadn’t been aware of the man. Perhaps he would send the solicitor a letter and—.

“I was on a hunt.”

The small figurine Thomas had been holding slipped through his fingers at the voice, breaking in two at the stone base of the fireplace. Giving a small squeak, he spun around and saw Christopher standing at the front of the living room, leaning forward on one foot, as if stepping lightly so as not to alarm Thomas.

“I had just left…when it must have happened.”

Clasping a hand to his chest, Thomas took a shuddering breath. “Good god, man! You’re like a ghost.”

It had been an entire day since they had parted ways at the front door, and Thomas had continued with his foraging in unexplored corners of the house. His thoughts had strayed to Christopher, and then suddenly here he was, spectral and silent. Only, he looked remarkably different, shaven-faced and almost clean, his thick hair tucked back behind both ears. He wore different trousers today, dark blue, with a smudged gray jumper that was loosely snug at the neck and around his ribs, accentuating a trim waist.

When Christopher said nothing, Thomas swallowed quickly and smoothed down his waistcoat. “Uh…yes. My apologies. Do come in. I’m still familiarizing myself with the house, going through my aunt’s things. It’s almost as if every corner I turn there’s something new, like the house is breeding…in a way.” He swallowed nervously, throat suddenly dry.

Christopher hitched his chin behind him. “I brought the meat.” He turned and disappeared from the doorway.

The meat? He bent to scoop up the broken pieces of the figurine he’d been examining and placed them on the fireplace mantel to dispose of later. He followed Christopher into the front foyer and through the doorway to the side of the staircase. The kitchen consisted of stone foundations, the air permanently freezing, which seemed unnatural to Thomas. A kitchen should always resonate with warmth and steam, but as he didn’t cook, the space was usually forlorn and neglected.

There was a squat rolling cart with a thick rope attached to a front anchor. It was brimming with slabs of red meat, fresh greens, eggs, three bottles of milk, and two loaves of golden bread. Hanging off the side was a canvas bag of firewood and a small sooty pail letting off a tendril of smoke. Thomas’s mouth watered embarrassingly at the sight of the food, and he swallowed again, blinking to hold his focus.

“What is all this?”

Christopher unhitched the bag from the cart and bent by the stove, opening the small door that revealed the dark interior belly, frozen cold. He tossed a few of the smoking coals within, shifting the wood around the canvas bag before placing it on the floor. Lying flat on the floor, he fiddled with something underneath the stove, a clicking Thomas heard before the beast gave a solid thrum. To Thomas’s immense delight, the kitchen immediately began to warm, the coals burning red before Christopher rose to his knees and snapped the small door closed again.

Eyes wide, Thomas crept closer to the stove and the man kneeling before it.

“You got it going,” he said in awe, his smile growing. “It feels so wonderful. Thank you.”

Christopher grunted and rose from his crouch, the bag of firewood hanging from one hand. Thomas took a small step back, eyes lingering on the strong lines of Christopher’s shaven face, his jaw and smooth cheekbones, the lashes curling over eyes fastened on him. He stared so deeply, so calmly, it was unnerving. Thomas blinked and let his gaze fall to the floor.

“You haven’t eaten,” the man said, and Thomas shook his head, whispering, “No.”

Nodding as if he’d known, Christopher set about preparing a meal. He stored the meat in the ice box, setting aside two sliced pieces. In the basin, he washed one of the dusty pans hanging from a hook on the wall, the water no doubt cold as ice, but he had it oiled and heating on the stove in no time. Thomas wanted to help, but was riveted by the methodical way Christopher moved about the kitchen, from the workbench in the middle to the stove and back, cooking the meat and cracking the eggs, slicing the bread and toasting it on a separate skillet. Thinking he would only get in the way, Thomas sank into one of the stools, both hands flat on the workbench.

“So,” he said, trying not to let the aromas of cooking food swarm his head. “You were hunting, you said?”

Not that the topic thrilled him, but he was just so happy to have another person with whom to speak, he was willing to hear just about anything Christopher had to say, especially in that deep timbre of voice. He’d never heard a voice quite like his before.

Christopher gave the toast a small smile, but it faded quickly. “I hunt for the missus every couple of months. Bring down deer and duck. Keep her stores fresh and full. But the game had traveled farther off course than I anticipated, and I was gone longer than I should have been.”

“I see. You must be very adept at it. Do you fish, as well?”

Christopher froze, eyes sliding to view Thomas from the side. “No. I don’t go near the sea.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

“It’s fine,” Christopher said quietly.

“So you were gone…when…” Thomas trailed off. “There was no mention of a man in her employment. Only a servant woman, but I don’t know her name. She’s gone, regardless, so it’s of no matter.” When Christopher said nothing he rose to collect utensils from a drawer beneath dusty herb jars just as Christopher set about serving their plates, an odd combination of steak and fluffy eggs, toast, and a full glass of milk.

Thomas returned to the table and Christopher placed a plate before him. “Eat.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Keeping his elbows tucked in, he cut at the meat delicately and ate as fast as propriety allowed him, stopping himself from moaning from the pleasure of it. Christopher sat in the stool opposite him, eyes flicking from Thomas’s plate to his face, knuckles whitening as he gripped his own fork.

“You were near starved,” he remarked in his low voice, but Thomas shrugged.

“I’m useless in a kitchen, as you no doubt now know. City life was easier, I’ll admit. I mean, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to starve. I’m sure I would have gathered the courage eventually to seek food in town.” At Christopher’s frown, Thomas hurried on. “And I was a student only a short while ago. Food was easy to access, and my mum was an excellent cook who never let an opportunity go by without feeding me.”

Christopher cocked an eyebrow. “Was?”

Thomas nodded, his emotions about his mother’s death still fresh and fragile, but muted and repressed somewhere deep inside him. He’d rather not talk about it.

“And what did you study?” Christopher said a little suddenly. Thomas glanced up at him. He was holding himself very still, fork laden with golden eggs, eyes on Thomas’s face again.

“Classics. And to be a librarian,” he added quietly, still a little sore that he’d given up his job in the city. But it wasn’t entirely lost, he considered. He had this house now. And working for Mr. Wimple had its positives. He was a nice older man and the shop smelled faintly of vanilla, mixing endearingly with the musk of old pages and stubborn ink. His fingers were nearly always blemished with it.

Christopher’s eyes flicked down to Thomas’s hands, and Thomas followed his gaze, a little self-conscious.

“I like to read,” he said hurriedly. “The position I was up for would have suited me nicely. Although working in the village bookshop is just as lovely.”

They finished their meal in silence, Thomas’s belly warm and comfortably full, a sensation he couldn’t believe he’d gone so long without. Christopher grabbed up their plates and washed them in the basin, giving Thomas a side-look when he thought to protest. He stood uselessly by, fidgeting with the hem of his waistcoat, the presence of this man in his home upsetting and disturbing him in a way he couldn’t quite identify. The rest of the food went into the icebox, save for the eggs and bread, which he placed on the counter under the herb cabinet.

Without another word, Christopher heaved the bag of firewood onto a shoulder and left the kitchen. Thomas found himself dogging his steps, hesitant to be alone again so soon after the company of another person. Propping several cords of wood into the hearth of the entrance living room, Christopher struck a long match and coaxed a gentle flame from the shredded kindling he’d laid underneath. With a crackle, the fire caught and the room took on a brighter glow as heat seeped into the open air.

This man, Thomas thought, somewhat overcome, carried warmth with him wherever he went.

Christopher rose and lifted the bag again. “Your room?”

Thomas blinked, heart giving a pained squeeze. “Pardon?”

“Your room. I’ll light a fire for you. It’ll last until nightfall. You can coax the embers and it’ll stay warm enough while you sleep.”

Thomas’s cheeks flamed, hearing Christopher say words like _warm enough_ and _sleep_ and _you_ , stirring something intimate and new in his chest, something like attraction and he became instantly alarmed.

“This way,” he said softly, turning and leading the way upstairs. Christopher’s steps were heavy behind him, his boots thicker than Thomas’s own shoes of thin leather and worn soles. In the two upper floors, the air thinned and grew even colder, and Thomas was suddenly embarrassed that he’d let the house remain in such a state, knowing Christopher would have had the place heated since the beginning, food in the stores, coal oven running. But he wasn’t to blame, he thought furiously, he hadn’t this form of education before. Life in the city was different and had left him woefully unprepared to live in a giant manor on a cliff in the country.

“You won’t have to worry about heat and food,” Christopher said as he knelt by Thomas’s fireplace and started to light the kindling. “That’s what I do here.”

“I don’t have a way to pay you. This house is all I have,” Thomas said quickly. “My job at the shop doesn’t pay much, and I’m lucky that I own this place outright, and I wouldn’t want to impose on whatever arrangement you and my aunt—.”

Christopher stood and Thomas’s mouth snapped shut, something twisting through his chest at the man’s imposing height.

“I don’t expect your money. I work for my stay. It’s what I’ve always done.” He stepped an inch closer and whispered, “I’m serious. You won’t need to find food in the village. I’ll feed you.”

Cheeks pink, Thomas nodded faintly, eyes darting between Christopher’s own. He hadn’t words to say, even if he could say them. Glancing about the room, Christopher pointed a long finger at the floor by the bed, and said, “Check there yet?”

Frowning, Thomas shook his head, confused. He watched as Christopher covered the space in two long strides before kneeling again and prying the floorboard up with a pointed tool he’d fished out of his back pocket.

“What are you—?”

The board hitched up with a crack and Christopher slowly pulled it from the rest, the sides smooth but swollen with moisture.

“Gets stuck sometimes,” Christopher said. “It’s why she needed my help removing it.”

Coming to stand at his shoulder, Thomas peered into the dark space and saw the outline of something big. Reaching in, Christopher pulled out a canvas satchel. Inside were bundles of rolled money, piled nearly to the brim.

Eyes popping, Thomas took to a knee beside Christopher and slowly took one of the rolls. “Goodness. What is all this?”

“Your aunt’s. She used it to pay for groceries and upkeep. She would send Dinah to town for supplies. I hardly went, but I can start now.” He flicked his gaze to Thomas and then quickly back at the money. “She always joked that she had stashes like this hidden all over the house, but this was the only one I knew about.”

“Christopher,” Thomas whispered, and Christopher’s eyes snapped back to his, his brow bunching. “I-I…Well, I don’t know what to say.”

Shrugging, Christopher knotted the top and pulled it up out of the floor.

“No,” Thomas said quickly. “Keep it there. I haven’t a clue what to do with it.”

“It’s yours.”

“Yes, but, it’s better there than anywhere else.” Already his anxiety about what he might do in the future about money had begun to abate, his breath expanding a little easier in his chest. This money allowed him to consider the future of living on this estate and working at the bookshop with less worry.

Christopher’s eyes were soft on him, his brows turned down at the corners as if in understanding, but something distrustful flickered in Thomas’s chest, unsure if Christopher was only being helpful so as to secure the money for himself at a later time. But he shook the feeling away. Why reveal the money’s location at all when he could have kept it hidden and taken it one day while Thomas was at work? His gaze passed over Christopher’s face, and he felt a bloom of regret for having thought so ill of him. For all his rugged appearance, dirty hands and worn clothing, Christopher had a kindness in him, low and just beneath the hardened bulk of all his strength. He could only hope Christopher wasn’t some murderous psychopath who would eventually kill him for the money and vanish into the mists of these moors. They’d only just met. Only time would tell the type of person Christopher was, and if it were truly like how he’d been slowly revealing, then Thomas wouldn’t mind in the least.

A small smile tugged the corner of Christopher’s mouth. “Will you be okay now?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you for showing me this. I would like to continue the tradition my aunt had. And I can certainly retrieve groceries from the village. I work there and it would seem contrary to make you travel all that way for something I can do. But if you need money for anything, please tell me.” There was a flurry of happiness that he might actually fall into some kind of domestic routine, even if it was in salted air and cliff’s edge, in solid agreement with a man who appeared created of the very woods lining the property.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that no one made mention of Christopher in the village, not even Mr. Wimple, who would have surely said something about another servant who did the brunt of the work on his aunt’s land. Perhaps Christopher didn’t like going into town. Perhaps he preferred not to be noticed.

Shame, he thought, kneeling there beside the man, caught by the ice blue of his eyes in sunlight. Someone such as he should be noticed.


	4. The Knowing

It was a unique and feathery feeling to slowly and quietly shift into the company of another after having been so alone. Thomas worked at the shop several days out of the week, but often found himself at home with the vast ceilings and sprawling staircase, the attic and its incessant creaking, the fires and the crackle and pop. His footsteps on stained marble were at times the only sound he’d hear apart from the whistling winds.

He sometimes didn’t see Christopher, only evidence of his presence, fires in the hearths, the coal stove lit and simmering, more meat in the ice box. He came and went in the house as if he lived there, but would always retire to his cabin at the edge of the forest, its soft yellow light spilling from the two windows Thomas could see at his perch in the bedroom under the attic. Smoke rose from a small chimney, and he imagined the place would be warm and cozy and dry. Not like here, where the fire would so often go out in his room, losing its lasting battle against the damp and chill that permeated his immense home. Cold and brittle, the air wet and unbearable.

And yet, as he stared at that distant glow of sweet heat through the fog of his breath on the window, Christopher emerged and trudged through the plain up to the big house. Thomas watched him, breath bated as Christopher grew bigger and taller, clearer, the determined bend of his brow, the waves of his wheat gold hair shifting in the breeze, a stark contrast to the scarf of deep burgundy he wore. Two floors below the front door opened wide, and Thomas, still at the window, hugged his arms tight and waited for the door of his bedroom to open, which it did. Christopher came in with head slightly bowed, edging close to the wall to kneel before the deadened fire, striking a match and working his magic that always eluded Thomas’s ability to light his own fires. And once the hearth was brimming with flames, he stood and edged back out, taking hold of the door and slowly closing it, whispering something, possibly goodnight, before leaving just as quietly. Thomas blinked, believing he caught the lingering scent of the man – coarse coal and butterscotch – breathing in deeper than before.

Back through the field he went, where Thomas imagined wildflowers grew in the spring, entering his cabin and closing Thomas off from what lay within, making him doubt he’d even come to him at all.

**

The more he observed Christopher, the more he sensed something peculiar about the man, a twinge in his chest that reminded him of waking in the night shrouded in confusion and slight terror, the shock of stepping barefoot on a stone floor, the rise of one’s hair in an electrical storm. It was obvious he was a hard worker, chopping wood and stocking the wrought iron claw-footed holders next to each fireplace in every room, climbing ladders and washing the windows with vigorous swipes, alarming Thomas when he came down the stairs with a book in hand to see disembodied legs propped against the glass. Removing the weeds and tall grasses that had begun to grow near the house, wheelbarrow loaded with compost he removed to a flat patch of earth behind his cabin to burn, the flames licking to the high sky, his silhouette a spike of gold at the distance Thomas stood unnoticed watching him.

He cooked every morning, serving Thomas food and lingering long enough to see that he ate it before disappearing again, returning at midday and dusk to ensure Thomas had lunch and supper as well. Thomas’s bicycle rides to and from work were often peppered with thoughts of him, the way his brows furrowed with every ax strike, the sinew and vein pop of his forearms, the ring of sweat along his collar. Thomas consistently found himself at one window or another, sheets of paper turned uselessly in his smudged fingers, eyes squinted at the far field where Christopher rolled a cart with wood or animal bones, the macabre remnants of his kills.

Walking from one room to another, he would be suddenly thrown in shadow, heart skipping at the newfound knowledge that only Christopher walked up to him so silently, a looming figure that discomforted in a way which surprised Thomas rather than frightened him. And there he would be, solid and rough-hewn, his mouth a lovely slash of crooked peach hiked up just a bit in the smallest smile.

“You okay?” he would ask, always ask.

Thomas would nod, voice sinking to an unknown place, timid in the face of such golden brawn.

Alone, he would ruminate and stew, unaccustomed to such whimsy, the tender way his ribs would tighten in the presence of his new friend. For that’s what they were, wasn’t it? Christopher’s attention on him was friendly and quietly concerned. Making sure Thomas ate, making sure he was warm. It seemed almost uncanny the way he anticipated his needs, seeming to sense moments when Thomas might require assistance. Reaching on a precarious ladder for the cobwebs beginning to weave over the lamp sconces like slips of silk in the sea breeze, the vibrating ladder would suddenly steady under the firm grip of Christopher’s hands, looking up at Thomas with calm blue eyes. Arms laden with heavy books, slowly sliding one foot and then the other over the smooth edge of the marble staircase, taking each precarious step with a bated breath, he would suddenly be dwarfed by a tall shadow rising before him. And there Christopher would be, taking more than half of his burden and walking down the rest of the way with him in companionable silence.

And so another month passed, days where Christopher – while not terribly overt about it, but just obvious enough to notice – always found Thomas wherever he was in the house, and would study him in that unobtrusive, silent way of his. Thomas suddenly understood that his observation might be out of a genuine interest to know Thomas was unhurt and fed. Turning the thought over in his mind, he found that it rather warmed him as the days grew colder. In a rare display of sunlight, scalding prisms stabbed into Thomas’s eyes through the high windows as he sat polishing the china in the scullery. His annoyed squints blinding him to everything but the sound of Christopher’s boots entering behind him and walking over to the high window, drawing low the shade. Batting his eyes to rid the sting, Thomas rubbed them lightly. So gentle and quiet was Christopher’s presence, Thomas was only half-aware of him.

“Thank you, darling,” he said, and then blushed scarlet, his senses thrumming to life. He glanced at Christopher, but the other just nodded with a small smile and slipped from the room again. Mouth dry, Thomas thought to ease his sudden thirst but aimed to finish with the tea cups before leaving his spot at the workbench. A long moment later, Christopher was back at his shoulder, cold glass of water in his hand.

“Oh,” Thomas said, scooting back in the chair, heart slamming in his chest. He looked from the glass to Christopher, suspicion knotting in his mind. “Christopher…I—.”

“I leave on a hunt today,” Christopher said quietly, and all other thoughts fled Thomas’s mind.

“Today?” he whispered, taking the glass, skin tightening as their fingers grazed.

“I head east. A day. Two at the most. There’s a herd there this time of year.”

_Don’t,_ Thomas thought. _Don’t go._

“I won’t be long,” Christopher said very quietly, looking almost pained. “It’s to stock us up for the winter.” Thomas almost missed the ‘us’ as thoughts of Christopher’s absence clouded his mind.

Each new November morning dawned fragile and bright with snow clouds, and it wouldn’t be long before ice and cold stifled the land and prevented anyone, even a soul as hardy as Christopher, from spending long periods of time out of doors. Christopher would need to stay close or else risk exposure. And close is where Thomas preferred him, his movements in the house and around the property granting him a deep measure of comfort and reassurance. He wasn’t alone, without him. The realization nearly knocked the breath from him.

_Christopher_ , he thought.

And Christopher, hand resting loosely on the scarred surface of the worktable, drew back so quickly his blunt nails left scratch marks on the wood. Startling, Thomas almost dropped the glass he was holding and could only watch as Christopher nodded mutely before turning on his heel. At the doorway, he paused and glanced back.

“Don’t freeze,” he said, meeting Thomas’s eye. “Please.”

And eat, Thomas thought just as Christopher added softly the exact same thing. Both drew in sharp breaths, and then Christopher was gone, his footsteps echoing dimly on the marble floor, front door opening and closing with a sharp bang.

**

He did not sleep well. The fire he started before bedtime lasted only an hour despite repeating the process Christopher had taught him, his flames petering out much sooner than the ones Christopher coaxed into bright being, their embers glowing well into the early hours of morning. But his were sad and sickly, as if resentful of his attempt to master them. Below him, through the floorboards and dusty stone, the house settled with groaned creaks, the doors to his room rattled, and the window became spattered with brief rain.

_No rain_ , he pined in half-sleep, shivering in a curled ball. _Don’t rain on him_.

The house took on an almost mean and predatory chill, the frost snapping to life in the corners of the windows. He didn’t dare remove himself from the safety of his cocoon in the blankets, imagining that to inch a toe from under the sheets was to condemn it to an instant freeze, deadening the skin. He lost his appetite, he lost his thirst, seeking the warmth his own body left on the bed, always fleeting, never enough.

Tossing against the pillows, he dreamed of the meadow outside the house, but it was barren, the grasses shorn and dry, brittle and yellow. In that shifting way of nocturnal visions, Christopher was suddenly before him, a bundle of bright blooms in his hand. He held them out to Thomas, who took them and brought them to his face, pollen tickling his nose, their sweet scent dizzying him. But when next he opened his eyes, the field was plush with flowers of every color, their long green stalks waving lazily in the breeze. At his side, Christopher hunched his shoulders almost bashfully, hands in his pockets as he stared out at the field brimming with life when before there had been only death.

He woke with clacking teeth, blue fingers, and a chest burning with fever. The ache spread high into his cheekbones, pressure building in his cranium. Flopping back against the bed, he drew the covers tightly around him, barely noting the wet spots on the sheet before falling under again. The morning passed in a dismal haze, the light shifting behind the curtains, growing gray and smudgy. Long dead, the fireplace was a dark hole in the wall, ashes twisting in small tendrils as they caught in the drafts rushing in from somewhere hidden.

Shivering, he lay blinking blearily at the edge of the mattress, where dust motes hovered, stirred by his breath. Like a wisp of a kiss, a drop of cold water splashed on the corner of his mouth, salt blooming like a film on his teeth. Rousing, he mumbled, confused, lifting a hand to wipe at the liquid, realizing quite suddenly that one half of his face was damp, as were the sheets. With a roll of his aching eyes, he caught sight of a small crack in the ceiling where another bead of water was preparing to drop. Giving in to his fatigue, he shifted and relaxed into the soft hovel of feather quilt and moaned quietly as another drop of water landed almost apologetically on the hollow of his throat, pooling there as he lost consciousness once more.

When next he woke, there was a golden pulse in the air, crowding through the darkness of what could only be deep night. There was crackling, and shifting of split wood, plumes of dry warmth wafting over him so sweetly his chest vibrated with a desolate moan. He cracked open his eyes and his bedroom slowly took form, blurry and swimming. The far door stood open a foot, the shades hanging loosely over the window to brace against the cold of night, and where before there had been only an ashy black hole, a great fire was roaring in the hearth, the flames higher than he’d ever seen them. They burned so brightly, it hurt to look at them, as searing as looking at the sun.

But he was farther from them than before, lying pliant on the edge of the bed, the sheets tangled around his waist as if he’d been dragged there. Looking down at himself, he saw he was wearing a strange sweater, dark blue with gold buttons at the collar, the sleeve cuffs reaching to his knuckles. It was soft, and so warm, and it smelled of butterscotch and rained earth.

And then a muted _plop_ drew his eye to a growing puddle of water soaking into the middle of the mattress, exactly where he had been floundering in fever most of the night.

He closed his gaze to it, pain splitting through his skull. Tongue dry in his mouth, his throat contracted and refused to swallow, his neck aching when he tried moving it. A loud bang from the ceiling startled his pulse. It was followed by the ragged draw and drag of something sharp, with teeth. A saw, he thought mildly. The pounding of a hammer. He is come, he thought dizzily. Where is he? He just wanted to see him. _Christopher_. The word spun around inside him, a beat of impatient wings. 

The noises above stopped, the house grew quiet and still, and he almost fell off the precipice into darkness again before the creak of the door fluttered his consciousness once more. A dream. A ghost. One of the many he knew lay claim to this house. But then a hand was on his face, long fingers tracing into the soft hairs at his temple, a wide, rough palm cupping his flushed cheek. He shivered, an ache seeping low into his belly, his ribcage tight. The fever still held strong.

_Chris_ , _Chris, please_ , he thought again, and against his forehead he felt a gentle pressure, brow to brow, nose to nose, heat seeping into his frigid skin. The blankets were tucked tight under his chin, a big hand placed in comfort on the crown of his head, the brim of a glass brought to his lips. Fresh water trickled into his mouth, held carefully so as not to overflow the rim, not salty like what had rained on him all night. He drank, his throat working with a pained throb, the rasp of illness assuaged by the cool liquid. Opening his eyes, he saw him glowing golden from the fire, lit brightly, flickering against the dark backdrop of the wall behind him.

_Chris_. Thomas felt the weak tug of a smile on his lips.

He wore the clothing he had on the day he left – yesterday, two days? – only it was ragged and dirty, streaked with mud and clinging leaf. And his eyes, the delicate skin just beneath, were bruised, mouth haggard as he stared down at Thomas, worried.

Thomas took a final swallow and then relaxed his neck, dragging in a haggard breath. The water settled like ice in his belly, setting off his tremors again. He shook under the blankets, feeling small in the heavy bulk of the sweater he wore, unable to stop the moan bubbling from his lips. Christopher leaned away to set the glass down, but was back a moment later, his hand settled on Thomas’s face again, frowning at what he felt there.

_Don’t go_ , Thomas pleaded, remembering this as the thought he’d had just before Christopher left. Gritting his teeth, he let the words seep deep into his bones, their urgency flushing through his veins, and above him Christopher inhaled roughly, a gasp.

It happened quickly. The touch on his head was suddenly gone, and Thomas almost collapsed into despairing tears at the loss, but then the corners of the blankets lifted, cold air rushing against his warmth-deprived body. Pulled high, Christopher clutched the blankets like the flap of a tent, lifting a leg – bootless – over Thomas, propping his knee just beside his hip to straddle him. Hoisting himself onto the bed, he let the blankets fall back over them, a heavy flutter that made Thomas’s head swim.

And then Christopher was lowering himself, nudge of stockinged feet, their knees bumping, settling, thighs, hips, bellies, chests, until Thomas’s breath was eased out in a surprised huff, the weight of the man enveloping him.

But the heat, oh it was divine, more than his own body had struggled to produce in spasms and shivers. Like waves, it was, rolling off Christopher and drenching him. A shudder wracked through his bones as he first absorbed him, his body melting easily and without strain under Christopher. Easing onto him slowly, Christopher held himself just high enough to peer into Thomas’s eyes, his own thick-lashed and creased in worried study. Lashes trembling, eyes watering with fatigue, Thomas blinked up at him, his hands creeping from limp rest on the sheets to grip weakly at Christopher’s waist, the wool thread of the sweater knotting at his palms. A long thumb slid cautiously over his frozen cheekbone, the other fingers cresting under the nape of his neck, cupping him, drawing him closer.

Holding himself on Thomas for several long seconds, Christopher took in every flicker of lash and tremble of lip before nodding once and slipping to the side. Arms wrapped around the back of him, he dragged Thomas with him, and they lay on their sides pressed close. From this angle, the flames were behind Christopher but he was between Thomas and the puddle of water on the bed, protecting him from the growing damp. Curling his fists between their chests, Thomas felt the rise of exhaustion, his lids becoming heavier, and slowly relaxed against Christopher, unashamedly – or unknowingly – pressing his face to the jutted point of Christopher’s throat and drifting off the precipice of sleep.

He didn’t dream, but he rested, sleeping deep and extendedly. But still he shivered and still he moaned, the ache in his body and fever in his blood waking him here and there, the fire still strong, the window still dark. Christopher kept him wrapped tightly in his arms, blankets drawn over them, rocking him faintly, humming fainter still. He rubbed his back and checked his fever with the back of his fingers, pulling him closer and pressing his cheek to Thomas’s temple, ridding him of as much chill as was possible.

And Thomas clung to him, deliciously smothered. With every hour that passed, his embrace became bolder, even in sleep, twisting his fingers into the worn cloth of Christopher’s shirt, the dip of spine and smooth muscle just beneath his touch. Their legs shifted, the coarse corduroy of Christopher’s trousers against the soft cotton of Thomas’s sleeping gown. So warm, his very soul was appeased with it, content pooling evenly in his belly as he sighed and murmured, half asleep.

Near dawn, his eyes blinked open, lashes snagging on the sharp bristles of Christopher’s scruffy beard. He was hot, near stifling, sweat beading on his forehead, but his head was clear again, his senses buzzing and bright, even if he was still exhausted. 

Their position on the bed was suddenly alarming, and he drew back in a startle. But Christopher’s arms went tight around him.

“No,” he whispered, and Thomas fell still, heart pounding.

Christopher opened his eyes, ice blue in the dim light of morning. His bruises seemed darker for it.

“Knew you would do that,” he said, just as softly. Their breaths tufted intimately, and it rose a nervous flush on Thomas’s cheeks. Christopher smiled. “Fever’s broken, yet still you burn.”

“Sir, I—.” His voice cracked, hoarse and rattling.

“Is it sir, now.”

Thomas swallowed, cowed. He was having trouble breathing, their breasts so close together.

But gently, Christopher brought his hand to Thomas’s cheek again and the memories of the previous night rushed toward him, of warmth and embraces, of shivering and a hushed voice, like a song. Still quiet, he lowered his eyes, focused solely on where his fingers clutched at Christopher’s dirtied shirt. He left them there.

Christopher shifted closer. “You were soaked when I found you.”

The ceiling, Thomas remembered, eyes moving up.

“It was dripping,” he whispered, and Christopher nodded.

“I’ll fix it. I was nearly finished.” The implication was there. _Just before you needed me_.

His skin grew hot, but Christopher smiled slowly, eyes roving over his face.

“You gave me your sweater?”

“I did. It might smell. It was the one I wore hunting.”

I like the way it smells, Thomas mused, eyes on the smooth skin of Christopher’s throat. The sweater’s collar rose high on his own neck, the worn wool soft on him.

Christopher smiled. “Put on a new gown for you, then the sweater. The water had you chilled.”

Renewed panic widened Thomas’s eyes and he tried drawing back again. Images of himself lying naked as Christopher stood over him flooded his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stopper them. The emotion in his chest was too raw and unfamiliar a thing.

Christopher wrapped a hand around his wrist. “What is it now?” he said softly.

“Nothing,” Thomas gasped, throat closing up. Christopher leaned closer, his body rising over Thomas.

“Easy. The fever’s broken, but you’re still not entirely well. Rest here. I’ll make you something.”

Thomas nodded, holding still as Christopher lifted the sheets and clambered over him, and for one infinitesimal moment, their eyes met and Thomas’s breath hollowed to a wisp in his chest, his fingers sliding down the hard length of Christopher’s forearms. Christopher blinked and looked down, a soft pink flushing his cheeks before his feet were planted and he was tucking the blankets up to Thomas’s chin and moving away. His steps receded down the stairs, and Thomas was able to draw in a deeper breath, soothed by the wool on his skin and the warm air wafting over him. The bed felt entirely too big.

The water no longer dripped onto the sheets, the crack in the ceiling dark and dry. Christopher must have been laying out new floorboards in the attic when Thomas first woke. The roof outside might need repairing too. And yet, the thought didn’t worry him. There was a distinct wave of comfort knowing that Christopher would take care of it, that Thomas needn’t worry over the repairs. That Christopher would handle it for him.

His gratitude was immense.

He was dozing when Christopher returned, a tray clasped in both hands. On it was a silver pot of tea, a white China cup with red and green flowers, and a bowl of steaming soup. Thomas’s vision blurred at the edges, but he blinked to draw Christopher into focus. Christopher set the tray on the table next to the bed and poured the tea, holding the pot so carefully in his long, rough hands. He dropped a cube of sugar in the tea and then carried it over to him. Thomas made to sit up, but Christopher whispered for him to stay still. Thomas wasn’t sure his arms would have supported him anyway, muscles and sinew tender. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Christopher balanced the cup on a small plate and used a spoon to stir the tea. Thomas noticed again the bruises under his eyes.

“Your hunt. Was it a difficult?”

Christopher shrugged. “A bit.”

“Why?”

“Do not worry. I got us plenty.”

_Us_. Thomas felt a flush of pleasure at the word.

“You look terrible,” he admitted, concern for him etched in his words.

At this, Christopher glanced down, resting the plate on his knee. His fingers rubbed at the edge of the spoon, something mindless. Speckled with coarse blond hair, his bones were nevertheless lovely, strong but slender, the jutting knob at his wrist riveting. Such delicacy for such a man.

“I didn’t – couldn’t sleep. Kept…hearing things.”

“Things?”

Christopher turned away. “Yes.”

Thomas couldn’t know what had plagued the man so deep in the woods, spirits or ravenous beasts. He was just happy he was back safely. If he hadn’t slept, then he must have been gone at least two days. How long had Thomas lain in bed, sick with fever? How much longer would it have been before it was too late? How helpless he was.

Christopher brought the plate up again, dipping the spoon in and ridding the excess on the rim of the cup. He held the spoon to Thomas’s lips, and Thomas opened his mouth obediently, the hot liquid spilling over his tongue. He swallowed, heat flooding his chest like honey. Again and again, he fed him more tea, carefully, until the cup was empty and Thomas was buzzing with warmth.

“I hunted quickly. Took down three in a day.” Christopher’s words came as if from a distance, as if their conversation hadn’t lulled to begin with. Still, it was hard to ignore the guilt twisting through Thomas, as if he had been the one to blame for Christopher’s haste during the hunt.

“You were rushed,” he said after a moment, licking his lips.

Christopher’s eyes snapped back to his, and he stood to place the plate and cup back on the table. “It was all the same in the end. I got what we needed, and came back to you.”

Thomas’s fingers tightened in the sheets. “Christopher, I—.”

Christopher was at his side in a moment, sitting at the edge, bending over him. Thomas inhaled carefully, nervous again, words fleeing. Christopher’s lashes looked like gold fronds in the firelight. “You were frozen,” he whispered, placing a hand on the flat of Thomas’s chest, his voice as soft as a breath. “You were frozen, Tom.”

It was the first time he’d said his name, low and round and sonorous in that voice, and an endearing nickname at that.

Tom.

He quite liked it. Breath caught, eyes flicking between Christopher’s own, he reached up to embrace him, but Christopher was already moving, meeting him halfway. Their chests collided softly, that warmth seeping once more. Thomas felt tears prick his eyes at the knowledge that whatever venture he was on with this new house and the new turn his life had taken, he wasn’t alone. He was surprised to realize how much it had frightened him before, how much he kept from even himself.

They drew back and stared at each other, both flushed. Christopher blinked twice and nodded, standing once more to bring the soup to his knee. He fed Thomas, and they smiled and glanced with quiet reserve. After, Christopher adjusted the logs in the hearth and set the flames high again. Thomas slept when Christopher left with the tray and empty plates, but heard him in the attic a while later, scraping at the wood and nailing the planks in place.

“Thank you,” he murmured when Christopher returned, the soup and tea settled nicely in his belly. He was ready to drift off once more. “I’ll be glad not to have seawater in my mouth again.”

Squatting by the bed, Christopher stiffened, his hand stilling on Thomas’s shoulder. “What did you say?”

Thomas barely heard him, curling on his side with the pillow so soft under his head. His sleep wouldn’t be nearly so terrible this time. “Hmm? Oh. The water. The water that fell from the ceiling was salty.”

He only barely caught the startled look of muted alarm on Christopher’s face, eyes turned up, narrowed. But he didn’t have a chance to ask what the matter was. Christopher blinked out of his vision as he gave in to sleep, his hand on Thomas’s shoulder tightening.


	5. The Ribbon

His health improved over the next few days. Christopher brought him tea and soups, adding soft breads in the evenings, lukewarm juice in the mornings. The roof was mended on the third day, and Tom was happy to be bedridden and not need bear witness to Christopher’s precarious climb on those ancient slats without tethers. Limbs and lungs weak, he began taking small steps about the room, trailing a hand on the wall for balance. It felt good to stretch his legs and feel the tight give of his muscles, to breathe deeply and let his ribs expand. There was a film on his teeth and dry sweat on his skin and he was desperate for a bath the more he moved. That’s where Christopher found him the morning of the fourth day, steeped in water near boiling but so relaxed he could barely keep his eyes open.

“This is lovely,” he murmured to the tall shadow hovering at the door, lips tugging into a small smile as the water lapped at his chin.

“You’ll catch your death again,” Christopher said, grabbing the towel hanging from the lion-headed hook on the wall. His gaze drifted low to the water’s shimmery surface, but Tom didn’t have the will to cover himself. The man had already seen him unclothed, had nursed him back to health. He didn’t have anything Christopher didn’t have. And it zipped a thrill up his spine, no matter the impropriety.

“Do let me stay in for a minute longer.” His voice was still a rasp.

Christopher sighed and took a knee by the tub. “How did you get yourself in this mammoth thing?”

“I sort of, flopped in. It wasn’t pretty.” He chuckled, a quiet scrape in his throat.

“You should have called me.”

“But how would you have heard? I can hardly raise my voice as it is.”

Christopher said nothing, his blue eyes shifting to the floor.

The steam and the illness had left Tom’s mind bare and exposed like a nerve, Christopher’s proximity both balm and fire-starter, his blood lit in his veins. He was suddenly glad for how alone they were in the house and on the property. Tom’s feelings might have withered in the company of others, confused and shamed, no place to free them. But here, alone with him, in this enormous house and all these acres and only this man to reflect off of, he wasn’t sure how to name the things that had begun stirring in his chest. He might fancy them living in a fairy tale. “I suppose I might hook a bell around your neck, on a length of blue ribbon. So that I might know when you are close.”

Christopher lifted his gaze, brows twitching in amusement. “Perhaps it would be better that I hook one around you instead, and string yours to mine. So that you might only tug when you have need of me.”

_Need of you._

Tom’s shudder was lost in the hot depth of the bath. “A length of ribbon, then, very long. From your bell to mine.”

“Just trailing over the floor and stairs.”

“In the grasses and over the hills. In blue tangles, shifting as we move.”

“An infinite ribbon.”

“Yes.”

Lifting his arm, Christopher palmed the crown of Tom’s head, and Tom sank a little further in, his smile shy. His entire body was rosy red, tingling in the cocoon of hot water. It wasn’t unlike how a flower greets the dawn.

“Let’s get you out now,” Christopher whispered.

Unstoppering the plug, the water began its noisy swirled descent, and Tom moved gingerly on his bottom to sit upright.

“Careful.”

“I can do it.”

“Take my hand.”

“All right.”

Standing shakily, the cold air slapped onto him with a start, and he gasped. Christopher wrapped the towel around his shoulders and clutched it in a knot at his throat. First one leg, then the other, he stepped from the tub with Christopher’s arms around him for balance, his naked soles pink and slippery on the marble next to the hard, cracked leather of Christopher’s boots. Water dripped from him steadily as he let Christopher warm his back with long even strokes, his chin propped on the hard curve of Christopher’s shoulder.

Once dry, he dressed in warm woolen bottoms and Christopher’s dark blue sweater, liking how the sleeves extended past his wrists to curl intimately over his knuckles. Christopher eyed it and said nothing.

Over the next week, Christopher fed him and kept the fire in the hearth high, helping Tom down the stairs for exercise, sitting him by the window smothered in blankets so that he could look towards the woods. On the table were the piles of books as he’d left them, one open to a paragraph he’d been reading about the natures of houses and the ornery attitudes of their invisible occupants, those spirits that created trouble if dramatic changes were made to the home. More supernatural nonsense.

Christopher, walking the perimeter of the library, eyes on the ceiling searching for cracks, stumbled on the corner of the center rug, nearly upending a table with spindle legs. He mumbled an apology, and didn’t meet his eyes.

There was a letter in the post from Mr. Wimple, saying he’d received his letter and hoped he felt better soon, to not strain himself, that the books would be waiting for him when he was feeling well again.

“My letter?” he said, resting the moist paper in his lap. The rains had started up again.

Christopher slowed his steps. “I wrote one for you. The day after I came back. I knew you wouldn’t want the man to worry.”

It was true that the thought had been fleeting in his fever addled haze, and he half expected to lose his employment from being absent so long, but it appeared Mr. Wimple wouldn’t insist on it. Still, the image of Christopher with pen and parchment sitting at a table ready to compose a letter was foreign in Tom’s mind. He just couldn’t place it naturally in the scheme of things. Christopher wasn’t of such things. He was of something purer, something rougher, something of the outside.

“Did you write it as…me?”

Christopher finally turned around, caught his eye. “Was that okay?”

Tom shrugged, not bothered in the least but immensely curious. If anything, it cemented in his mind the idea that Christopher didn’t want to be known beyond the borders of the property. “What did you write?”

“Things I believed you would say, with your gentle and smart words.”

Tom glanced at him, but Christopher let his gaze flicker away.

“That you hoped he would forgive you, that you were ill, that you were not sure when you would be well again to travel to the village.”

Tom settled deeper into his throne of blankets, warmed with something far lovelier. He had a sudden image of Christopher sealing the envelope with reddened wax, dropping the letter in the bin at the front gates, imagining the things Tom would say.

“Thank you, Christopher. That was very kind of you.”

Christopher nodded and continued on with his inspection.

**

He always returned to his cabin at nightfall, and Tom figured he needed to look after the meat he’d acquired on his hunt. The ice box was brimming with it, and there were fresh vegetables and eggs on the counter, milk and juice, bread. There were jams in the cupboard, stiff cheeses and butter, the rack full of individually wrapped pouches of tea.

“You went to town,” Tom mentioned one morning, and Christopher shrugged from the stove. He flipped an egg and sprinkled salt on it. Tom watched him. “You don’t like going there. Why?”

“I don’t much like people. Especially these people. Gossipers, all of them.”

“Have they spoken ill of you before? Has Mr. Wimple?”

“’fraid I don’t know him, other than that he’s your boss. Seems fine enough. But yes, I make myself scarce. A few of them, the older ones, know of me, know I live up here. And sometimes I can’t avoid going down for supplies or tools. It’s just the stories they’ve heard.”

“What stories?”

Christopher filled their plates and set one before Tom, buttering up some bread next and handing it to him. He sat across from him and his boot scuffed the toe of the slippers Tom wore. Neither of them moved away.

“Stories of my birth. Where I came from. Why I live here.” He shrugged and dug his fork into the eggs. Tom picked at his own food, lost in thought, but took a heartier bite after the sharp look Christopher tossed at him.

“Yes, but, why would these stories be bad? Where are your people, your family?”

“I do not know. I lived alone since I could remember. Those woods were all I knew until I sought work here for the family. They gave me lumber and I built my cabin. I was young, still, then. Sixteen, maybe. Now I have my garden and my privacy. It’s been fine. But people make up stories to inflame unknowns. I cannot stand it.”

Tom had never seen Christopher display such disapproval, and he felt an inkling of despair that he should ever be the focus of it. At his silence, Christopher nudged his foot.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to sound upset.”

“No. It’s quite all right, Chris. I just want to understand,” he finished softly.

They ate in silence and Tom was struck once more by how attractive the man was, elegant brow and nose line, his full lips, thick lashes, and lovely wrist bones softening the sharp angle of his jaw, the solid sense of masculinity his sheer size and presence exuded. There was a heaviness about him, nothing unpleasant, but unavoidable to be sure. There was no mistaking the power in his limbs, the sharp gaze that caught everything, the quiet turn of his mind, an intelligence that needed no proving.

After breakfast, Christopher retreated to chores in the yard and Tom found himself in the attic, eyes lingering on the new planks of wood Christopher had installed, their smooth finish a different color from the rest, sharp and still sticky with sap. There didn’t seem to be a source in the ceiling above, anything that would make sense for the dripping to occur over his bed, but Christopher had repaired the roof so Tom figured all was well again. There were more boxes of books and papers to sort through, and he started in a corner he’d so far neglected. More trash and items to donate, words scrawled and illegible. He didn’t rouse until he heard Christopher’s call for him, the sound distant and faint from the ground floor. It was lunchtime, and Christopher never failed to feed him.

In the days following their night spent together, Christopher was careful with him, cautious, but Tom had the impression he wanted to initiate touch in a way that was absent before Tom fell ill. He still remembered the hot brush of Christopher’s cheek on his forehead, the gentle but firm spread of his large hands on the span of his back, shielding, even with his own body, the cold from advancing into him. He thought about it late at night, when the house creaked and the wind rushed in great gusts against the window, when the fire kept a steady glow and warmth. It calmed him, knowing it had been made at Christopher’s hands.

They hadn’t kissed, but it was almost as if they should have.

Tom was still red-faced at dinner, thoughts of the man fresh in his mind. Christopher’s bulk across the table was like a magnet for his stubborn gaze, quick to lower his eyes should Christopher catch him, his pulse jumping as if he’d been scalded. With the plates in the basin, washed and stacked to dry, he felt a hand snake over his waist, impossibly long fingers curving and pressing into the flat of his belly. He jumped slightly, but held still as Christopher stood just beside him. The warmth was dizzying, and he sighed in relief, glad he hadn’t imagined it all.

“No matter my efforts to fatten you, you are a lean sprout, aren’t you?”

“You do not want me fat,” he breathed, covering his cheek with a hand, his heart racing.

“I want you healthy.”

“The illness made me thinner, true, but I’ve always been thin.” He shot Christopher a side glance. “Nothing like you.”

Christopher grinned. “Am I fat?”

“No,” Tom laughed. “But you’re strong. Your body shows it.”

“You don’t think you’re strong?”

Turning slightly, Tom felt as Christopher’s hand grazed from waist to lower back and stayed put. “Not like you,” he whispered, and Christopher’s eyes crinkled a merry blue when he smiled at him.


	6. The Snow Storm

The weather shifted from sleeted rains to snow in late December. Tom had to be careful riding his bike to work every day, the patches of ice a danger to his balance, his coat and thick scarf bulky and impeding. Sometimes he made it to Mr. Wimple’s shop unhurt, and other times not. This morning, the ground was laced with frost blossoms, the dirt frozen over completely. Turning at the gate, the wheels spun wildly and he skidded straight into the low wall, smashing his elbow into the smooth but unyielding mortared stones, standing strong after centuries. The bike flew out from under him and he landed in a tumble on the ground. Pain flashed up his shoulder and he felt the wet stickiness of what could only be the burst of blood inside the snug sleeve of shirt and coat.

Catching his breath, he gasped and held his arm, afraid to look, the pain both stinging and throbbing in turn. The rest of him appeared unscathed. But then pounding footsteps drew his gaze and Chris was suddenly there, dropping to a knee, eyes scanning him for injuries. His hands were dripping soil, and Tom knew he had been skewering the rain-softened land by the house to prepare for spring.

“My elbow,” he whispered, embarrassment and pain splotching his skin red.

“Easy now, come on.” Chris hauled him up under his arms, making Tom feel as weightless as a paper swan. In the kitchen, he eased off his coat as Chris scrubbed his hands and fetched ointment and linen to wrap his wound. Tom hissed when Chris guided his elbow under the faucet, a deep cut just under the curve of bone, but Chris murmured quietly to ease him. The ointment stung, but the bandage was soft and dry as Chris knotted it neatly. Tom loved looking at his hands, dirt lining the blunted fingernails, scuffs and small scratches of his work adorning his skin like red constellations. The veins were thick and pale blue. He wanted to touch them.

Chris lifted a hand suddenly, caressing the back of it over Tom’s cheek, the veins bumping softly, like lines of velvet. Christopher’s eyes seemed like crystal in the gray light of the kitchen.

“The frost has you flushed.”

“Yes,” Tom said, stopping himself from leaning into the touch. “The frost.”

**

He was sure he wasn’t imagining the voice. Before, Tom had chalked up the mysterious sounds or occurrences to his fatigued hunger after moving in, but now, under Christopher’s constant care and supervision, he could no longer readily blame what he’d been hearing on an empty stomach and exhausted mind. His sleep often went interrupted, snapping awake at the soft fall of a footstep, or the swish of a dress on marble. But there was never anyone _there_ , and he wasn’t about to attempt communicating with something that could very well not exist. Such superstitions were unhealthy, and one shouldn’t encourage them.

And yet, alone in his room, or in the attic sorting papers, he began to doubt his own convictions. The woman’s voice was unmistakable. Grainy and peppered with static, her singing, a soft and lilting lullaby, echoed up the stairs and between the floorboards as if from the rickety rounds of an old gramophone. It was melancholy and longing, a deep sorrow that disquieted him. He half believed it might be some remnant of his aunt, come home and wandering, confused perhaps, afraid. But as he’d never met her or even encountered pictures that might prove to be her, he couldn’t be sure.

They were fleeting, these melodies, this whispery voice, but they were happening more frequently. Often Tom failed to register it at all, until only the fading dregs of it snapped his attention from his papers or his books and he was left staring up and about, unsure.

As winter dug deep its claws, the nights turned freezing, an improbable thing in Tom’s opinion.

“You don’t suffer out there in your cabin?” he’d asked Christopher, clutching the lapels of his coat in trembling fingers.

“You mean, like you here?”

Tom huffed, but smiled and let Chris take his hands, rubbing them between his own. “No. It is warm and dry. I have made it so.”

Make it so for me, Tom pled, the thought crushing through his mind and nearly tumbling from his lips. “How lovely,” he whispered instead, and the corners of Christopher’s eyes had dipped, softening.

Now, by the distant chimes of the grandfather clock in the library it was after midnight and he lay awake under his blanket, eyes on the flames still crackling low. Lashes dipping, he sank deeper into unconsciousness, flirting with the thin veil of it.

And then the drag of cloth on the floor, the swish of a skirt, faint, like the brush of fingers on velvet.

His eyes snapped open and he glanced about, listening. The wind whistled at the window. Wood snapped in the fireplace. Nothing moved in the room. He sat up, heart starting up a quickened beat. Throwing back the covers, he placed his feet on the floor. “Hello?” Out loud, his voice was sharp and deep, a quick succinct sound, one he hoped conveyed authority as the owner of this house. There was nothing for several moments, and he stood carefully. Slipping on his robe, he belted it at the waist and shoved his feet into his bed slippers. Gravitating toward the window, he pulled aside the curtain and stared across the field to Christopher’s cabin, a single window lit with a golden glow. A fire in the hearth, perhaps. He stood there for some time, wondering if he’d dreamed it, if the house was ever truly sentient, if it could hear him now.

But after several minutes of quiet pacing, he fell back asleep within the hour, not waking again until he heard Chris call his name for breakfast, and it was like a tug on his heart from a ribbon of blue. Rinsing his mouth, washing his face, wetting his hair and running it back, he peered at himself in the mirror, wondering what other people saw when they looked at him. Straight nose, sharp jaw, cheekbones high under eyes not quite green. So thin. Sighing, he turned away.

Robe on over his sleeping gown, he took the stairs to the ground floor and entered the kitchen. The smell of food was particularly enticing this morning, and his stomach growled loudly.

“Hello,” he said quietly, and smiled when Chris glanced at him over his shoulder.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, setting down a glass of juice before Tom.

“Oh. Not very well, I’m afraid.”

Chris frowned, pausing beside him. “How do you mean?”

Tom shrugged, taking a drink. “The house was noisier than usual, is all. Kept me awake most of the night. And you?” he said, looking up at him. “How did you sleep?”

Even as he turned away, Tom still caught the frown on the man’s brow. “About the same.”

After breakfast, he bundled up and walked his bike down the drive, staring down the hill to the town, shrouded in heavy mist. The sky was shockingly bright, unnervingly so. The wind came in stuttered bursts, lagging into stillness before rushing past in frightful whirlwinds.

“Be careful,” Chris said, appearing behind him, a hand cupping the back of his neck. Tom jumped but Chris was already turning away, his hand dropping, leaving a spot of cold on his skin.

Tom rode into work, careful about maneuvering his bike through the pitted and iced crags of the road just outside the gate. The lunch Chris had packed for him rested in a bundled cloth in the basket between the vibrating handlebars. It lurched when he finally stumbled up to the bookshop and leaned his bike against the outside wall. He was panting, the descent from his property more perilous than he’d anticipated. Chris had wrapped Tom’s scarf nearly up to his eyes, and Tom had let it be, flurries of snow caught up in the fibers, in his hair and lashes, pricking like needles of ice.

“My lad, goodness, hurry in, hurry in!” Mr. Wimple waved at him from the door.

Tom grabbed his lunch and ran inside, stamping his feet on the mat and removing his warm, protective layers. “It’s a fright outside, I hope I can make it home.”

“It’s nothing at all to stay here if you need to. There’s a cot above the office.” Mr. Wimple said, shutting the door and peering out. “It could get heavier by the afternoon.”

Patting blood back into his cheeks, Tom said, “Are you open all winter?”

“Actually no. I usually close for a month before Christmas. Longer if the weather is still nasty into February. No one can make it out to the shop anyway. They reserve their outings for the butcher and the baker.”

“Certainly books are on lists for gifts,” Tom said, smiling. He made his way into the interior of the shop, leaving his lunch in a corner table for later.

“Perhaps so. We can only hope. I’ve been meaning to tell you, Tom, that if the road becomes too treacherous for you, I understand if you can’t make it in. You can break a leg rolling down that hill from your house.”

“If I can manage, I’ll make it. But thank you for letting me know. Sometimes I hesitate at the gate,” he said, laughing.

The sky grew dark past the lunch hour and snow drifts gusted harder in the street by mid-afternoon. He and Mr. Wimple stood at the front window watching it rain down.

“I reckon if you wanted to make it home, you should leave now. The road might already be impassable. You’re more than welcome to stay here, or at my house, if you’d like.”

The notion had been gnawing at Tom’s gut all day, but he’d continued shelving the books and rotating editions. Now he might not have his chance at all. How long would he have to stay at Mr. Wimple’s home if he decided to go there now? They would be snowed in.

The sandwich and apple Chris had packed for him kept his belly full, and he missed the man terribly.

“Let’s finish up the chores for today and we’ll decide where you go after.”

Tom felt better about keeping busy, even if worry goaded his steps, made him fumble. They were stacking the last of the boxes when there was a sudden loud rapping on the front door. Mr. Wimple spun around. “Who on earth would be out right now?”

Tom went to the door and opened it a crack. A tall figure stood there, wrapped in several layers of furs. Only his eyes were exposed, squinted and crystal blue.

“Christopher,” he breathed, and Chris pushed through the door into the shop.

“Who are you?” Mr. Wimple asked, his voice slightly higher with alarm.

“He works for me,” Tom said quickly, heart beating rapidly. He met Christopher’s gaze, searching.

“Works for you? But—.”

“I’m sorry, not exactly. He lives on the property. He’s worked for the family for years,” he said a little distractedly. He turned to Christopher. “Is everything alright? What is it?”

When he spoke, Christopher’s voice was muffled from the scarves over his mouth, but his hand was already circling Tom’s arm. “You need to come now. The storm will only get worse.”

“Tom, is everything all right? Are you sure you know this man?” Mr. Wimple had stepped back from Christopher, eyes shifting from his thick boots up his remarkably tall frame to where his blond hair peeked out from the woolen cap he wore. Tom imagined Christopher’s size made the older, much smaller man nervous.

“Yes, I do. And I should go with him. We can make it back to the house before nightfall. Do you need us to accompany you home first?” He ignored the squeeze on his arm.

“No. I’m close by. I’ll shut the shop down now.” He tossed Chris another glance. “Be careful, Tom. I’ll see you when the storm is over, but if it’s too dangerous just send me a letter in the post.”

They agreed, and then Tom was throwing on his coat and shoving his hands into his gloves. Chris wrapped his scarf again, the material rising higher on his cheeks and hiding his blushing skin, their eyes meeting and lingering. Once all bundled, they pushed outside into the harsh wind. Tom stumbled at its strength, but Chris caught him and guided him to the street.

“My bike!” He could hardly hear himself over the roar whistling at his ears.

Chris shook his head. “Leave it!” Already they were in a cyclone of white, the buildings around them disappearing into the murk.

He wrapped an arm around Tom’s shoulders, placing his mittened hand over the exposed part of his face. Guiding his head down, he held Tom to the crook of his neck, his other arm embracing his front, helping to push through the blinding winds. Balance off, Tom hugged Chris around the waist and together they stumbled and braced against the storm, pushing with stiff legs, slipping on the ice, clutching at each other and shouting to be careful. They left the town behind, the ground and sky blending together in a frightening sheet of pure white, up twisting from down. They might just as easily fall into the sky as crash to the earth.

The tip of his shoe caught on a protruding rock and he nearly fell, but Chris snapped him up quick, squeezing him close, his voice more a caress on his temple than an actual sound. A whimper caught behind his teeth, but he buried his face against Chris and shut his eyes. One step, two, a dozen or hundreds, they climbed and pushed, stumbled through the frenzied, cutting winds, the clouds of misty ice that crusted in their eyes and crystallized on their lashes. Numbed from the cold, jittery and lost, Tom gripped Chris tightly, feeling adrift in a sea of glittering, painful white and Chris his anchor, guiding him safely.

An eternity later, the gate appeared before them, cruelly curled wrought iron, unforgiving and cold as they collided against it. Pushing through, it screamed on its frozen hinges, almost identical to the howling winds.

Tom’s jaw felt fused together, muscles sore. “Chris—I can’t see!”

“We’re almost there!”

The front steps loomed up before them and they hurried up to the landing. Chris cast a last glance at his cabin in the distance, hesitating, but Tom was tugging him forward, desperate to be out of the storm. He fell to his knees just inside the entrance as Chris slammed shut the doors and bolted them. Snow spiraled lazily on the marble, urged by a draft somewhere.

This blasted house was all cracks and hidden doors, impossible burden, he thought miserably.

A sudden, deep shudder moaned through the rafters, and Tom sat up, eyes on the ceiling.

“The winds are strong,” Chris whispered, unnecessarily, but his eyes too flickered up. Taking Tom by the arms, he helped him stand and they trudged through the echoing foyer to the staircase. Blinking away the smudging wetness of his eyes, Tom thought he might be snow blind, his sight blurry and edged in gray. His teeth chattered and his fingers curled stiffly in their gloves, but he climbed blindly up to his bedroom beside Christopher, who breathed heavily, his eyes a little panicked in the shifting dark of the silent house.

His room was heavy with cold, the air parting and wafting in icy waves over their faces. Standing huddled together just inside the doorway, Tom rubbed his nose into the tight weave of Christopher’s coat, the tip burning.

“Ch-Christopher,” he mumbled, chills shaking him terribly.

Nodding, Chris ignored the fireplace and made a beeline to the bed. “Lie here. I’ll start a fire.”

“No,” Tom said quickly, voice cracking. He clung to him, loathe to be separated from that warmth. Everywhere else, the very air, was a freezing kiss waiting to plant itself on him. He couldn’t bear the thought of Chris moving away.

Chris hugged him close, hushing him quietly, his cheek at Tom’s temple, reminding him of a cat soothing its kitten. It made him feel smaller somehow, something delicate and cherished. Protected. He gave a little moan and nudged Chris with his forehead, half-delirious with the wind and the snow and the terrible cold, with the bone deep desire to burrow closer to the man before him.

Chris gritted his teeth, jaw muscles jumping as he wrapped Tom around the waist with one arm and flung aside the blankets with the other. He was quick about throwing off his mittens and unbuttoning Tom’s coat, pushing it off his shoulders so that Tom gasped, the hard glint of Christopher’s eyes both arousing and terrifying in the dim light, the cold shocking him to his core. Scarf and sweater, boots and trousers, they were removed with haste until both stood barefoot and shivering in their underclothes, Tom’s longer and covering his limbs to the joints, unlike Christopher’s threadbare garments, cut short above his knees, shirt cropped at the shoulders. Such wondrous arms, all round, hard muscle. Tom could only stare.

The cold became too much and they fell into the bed, limbs bumping, hurrying to draw the blankets up and snuff out all drafts of air. It was easy to clasp at each other, breast to breast, their trembling knocking their teeth, tearing distressed groans from their throats.

“It’s okay,” Chris whispered, rubbing Tom’s back, his hands big and wide over the soft cotton of his undershirt. “Such a thin sprig, you are. All bone and lean meat. You’ll freeze in these lands.”

“You won’t let me,” he whispered back, face pressed in the crevice between Christopher’s head and the pillow.

“No,” Chris agreed quietly. “I wouldn’t. Never.”

The house gave another tremor, the winds rushing and bowling against the outer walls, aggressive, like they wanted to tear through the stone and devour them both. The thought came as a flare, a threat, and he dug himself deeper against Christopher, the other accepting his weight, squeezing him tighter.

“Can you see?” Chris asked softly, craning his neck back, a thumb brushing over Tom’s eyebrow.

Tom shifted his head and tried not to think of where their hips pressed together, the mound of flesh he felt against his own. “Not really. It’s still so blurry.”

Their faces were so close it was hard to miss the thick lashes blinking down at him, their pretty curve, the weight of the hand on his face. At Christopher’s back, Tom’s fingers curled in his shirt, and their mouths slowly parted, both sensing the shift. Chris dipped low and Tom lifted high and their mouths met in a hot rush, lips opening for the warmer wet. Tom moaned at the brush of tongue, arching his chest, belly filling with golden heat when Chris rolled on top of him. Smothered and drunk with it, he clawed at his back wantonly, digging his fingers under cloth and into smooth skin shamefully, but he didn’t care, he _couldn’t_ care, not when desire flooded his brain and he gasped and whispered, their kiss blending into dozens, hot and urgent. Peppered on cheeks, his jaw, brows, his nose, ears, another moan, hard. All lips and fingers and long, long legs, they writhed on the bed, blanketed, their cocoon warming quickly.

“Oh…darling,” he breathed, mouth at Christopher’s ear, and Chris jolted as if stung, but he groaned and lay heavier on him, his scent something beautiful and rough, spun of earth and sweet butter. Tom inhaled, dizzy and yearning. Between their legs, they stirred and filled, Tom’s lust enflaming his blood, pumping his heart into stumbling rhythms.

They stilled, feeling their cores move, seeking and throbbing. Christopher’s eyes drifted shut, his mouth a little bruised, flushed. He shook, muscles tight as he held himself over him. Tom became infused with a wave of delight, and possession, at the sight of it. But his own face grew hot as their flesh expanded, thickened and rose, straining for touch. It was something he hadn’t felt since his youth, the need of it, the desperation, his body displaying such arduous craving, almost painful. His mind became fuzzy, and he smiled. _Look at me_.

Opening his eyes, Christopher’s face echoed his joy, and he bent for another kiss, thrusting his tongue as he did with his hips. Tom broke away with a small cry, his legs spreading in one quick move. Chris fell against him, all hunger, snugger, tighter, and they exhaled slowly, arms wrapping each other closely.

Positioned like this, they became frantic, hips crashing and molding. It was neither gentle nor slow, their bellies tightening the faster they moved, the harder they rubbed, dragging up and then down, their flesh aching and tender, swelling. Kissing, they moaned and whispered, clacked teeth and grinned. Nosing behind Tom’s ear, Chris heaved breaths and pumped between Tom’s legs, rubbing and grinding their hard lengths, stoking the flames that licked at their cores, the sparks that had begun to dot Tom’s vision.

“Please,” he moaned. So wanton, his eyes rolling back as Chris mouthed at his neck, moist patches like a necklace on his throat. He scratched at him, tugging at his waist, urging him on. He wanted skin suddenly, impatient with the thin cotton between them, imaging Christopher’s lips on a – dare he think it? – _nipple_ , the nub tender and neglected. He needed it touched, wanted the wet heat of—

Chris snaked his hands to the collar of Tom’s shirt and filled his fists with the material. Yanking in opposite directions, the shirt tore down the middle, the rip loud and alarming. Tom gasped and lifted his head, eyes catching on a silver button as it popped away, landing with a trill on the floor.

“Dear God,” he whimpered, collapsing back as Chris traced his hands from collarbone to abdomen, chest hair sensitive under those long fingers. His entire torso rose and fell with shuddered breaths, feeling consumed by heady thoughts and the despairing, gorgeous weight of the man above him. But then Chris was bending, mouth opening, hot tongue swiping as his lips closed over Tom’s peaked nipple.

He cried out, grasping Christopher’s arms, spine arcing as he lifted and hoped for more, gentler, harder, anything _. Anything from you_. Moaning, Chris relaxed on him, hips still thrusting, nursing at his chest, one nipple, then the next. Buzzing with emotion, brimming with the need to release, the pressure built and built in him until he couldn’t stand it.

_Kiss_ , he begged, throat knotted and useless. _Kiss me._

Dragging his tongue one last time over the stinging nub, Chris pressed himself back over Tom and took his mouth in a deep kiss, plunging his tongue in and licking at him until Tom melted into the bed, weak and willing to be devoured. Panting, bruised, swollen and rosy as a flower, Tom whimpered and felt the deep thrumming pulse inside him edging closer to breaking.

_Yes, yes…please._

Brow to brow, nose to nose, Chris peered at him, sweet and serious. “Dearest,” he whispered, lengths brushing roughly. With a twisting snap, Tom’s climax erupted through his blood and he gave a broken shout, eyes squeezed shut as he felt himself spurt hotly between their bodies. Trembling, he breathed and shook, moans cracking, Christopher’s cheek on his as he was held and coddled, deep murmurs angling over him as glowing rays that pierce the deep waters of an ocean. They called him back, up, up to the surface, where he might breathe and live.

“Yes. Good, love. You’re beautiful.” He heard this like leaves moving in a breeze, on his skin like a feather, full lips kissing tender dots down his jaw. His pulses finally slowed, still swollen and wet, his body giving in from immense pleasure to shattering exhaustion.

Still, he bounced limply under Chris’s thrusts against him, and he made a valiant effort to lift his arms and embrace him gently, turning his face up so that their lips might drag together, noses bumping, their breaths sweet and hot on their skin. The moment Chris climaxed was as a drop of water in the lake of Tom’s heart, the ripples expanding and leavening out to rest placidly on shore. He would never forget it, the noises Chris made. Of desperation, of need, of relief. His name, his name.

Grunting, Chris grabbed him up tight, their hands clasped between their heaving chests. He shuddered and bucked again, and Tom actually felt the beat of each crest as Chris swelled and strained and poured out as stickily as he had. The cotton became heavy and soaked with their spend, pasted to them.

Gasping, they lifted their eyes and blinked, the cold rushing in at the edges of everything. Their ears, their brows and noses, a small spot by their ankles where the sheets had lifted. Tom squirmed closer.

“It’s cold,” he whispered, and Christopher’s face broke into a lovely grin.

“Yes. I daresay it is. Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m well. Are you?”

Another gust of wind struck the house and they swiveled their heads to stare at the window. Tom’s heart knocked wildly in his chest, he forgot almost instantly everything else when Chris nudged his nose into Tom’s cheek, leaving a sweet kiss there. “I’m well, too.”

**

Chris went in search of clean nightgowns and kindling to strike a fire. Lying in the bubble under the blankets, Tom pressed his nose to the sheets and breathed deep, his belly sticky and still wet. Gown torn, lips bruised, sore between his legs, he looked positively ravished, and was strangely, immensely content with the fact. When Chris returned, they switched into the fresh gowns and used their soiled small clothes to wipe at their skin. Tom’s was shredded in the front, the threads hanging limply where Chris had torn them apart. Irreparable, and he didn’t care. Chased by the cold, they hustled back under the blankets and cuddled together. Tom shook off the remaining chills, his bare feet nudging between Christopher’s.

“I’ve never worn a sleeping gown,” Chris said, peering under the sheets at their bodies in the dark. Their musk rose high and Tom sighed, remembering everything of their…had it been a coupling? Chris hadn’t actually…there hadn’t been…But that didn’t mean that what they did hadn’t been _like_ a coupling. It was just as intense, and pleasurable, only without…

His face burned imagining it, wondering.

“And you?”

Tom blinked, snapping to attention. “Oh. What?”

Chris smiled, almost knowingly, and very patient. “Do you wear these often?” He tugged at Tom’s sleeping gown.

“Oh, forgive me. Yes, I do. Ever since I was a boy.”

Chris relaxed his head on the pillow, their noses nearly touching. His voice was especially gentle. “Where were you just now? Will you tell me.”

Tell him? No, he couldn’t possibly. It was too much to even fathom, let alone speak of. The details, what he might feel if they ever did do such a thing, it was all too much. Chris rubbed his thumb over Tom’s cheek, smiling kindly as if Tom were speaking plainly, out loud.

“You went for me,” he said instead, hoping to draw him away from that topic.

Chris nodded, eyes flicking to Tom’s lips. “I did. I couldn’t let you stay there. Who knew how long the snow would keep everyone indoors?”

“It’s true I was thinking of staying. How intuitive you are.” He smiled but Chris ducked his head, and in the light of the fire, Tom saw how brightly he blushed.

Resting on their sides facing each other, their blinks slowed until both fell into sleep, curling closer together as the long hours of night slipped by and the fire popped gently into dawn. It was still snowing when Tom woke, the flakes drifting along the glass to pile up on the ground below. Chris was humming, awake before him, holding Tom’s hand and caressing the knuckles gently.

“These fingers, always covered in ink.”

Tom glanced at his hand, the skin smudged with the residue of shedding ink from the books he handled all day. He was surprised it hadn’t rubbed clean from his gloves and their sweat.

Blue eyes flashed up to his. “Think I have any bit of it on my back?”

Tom blushed to the root of his hair, remembering how he’d grasped and scratched at Christopher, how desperate he needed him to be closer.

“Maybe,” he whispered, liking the thrill that shot through his heart at the look on Christopher’s face, darkening with immediate, scorching interest. They smiled at each other and then laughed, falling into each other, to embrace and kiss again.

“Your eyelashes,” Chris whispered, kissing each closed eyelid. “And your eyebrows.” He fixed his mouth over each, like a blessing. “They turn nearly white when you blush.”

Tom smiled. “I haven’t seen the sun in six months.”

“For lack of leaving your library.”

“For this wicked weather, more like.”

“But then how might I get close to you, without it?”

Tom hesitated, wondering if things might have been different between them had it been spring and they weren’t driven together out of necessity. Would Tom’s propriety and upbringing had stopped him from allowing his feelings for Chris to blossom? Would they have been relegated to staring at each other from afar? Would he have not had these lovey kisses, these embraces, this man?

Chris watched him quietly, a frown teasing at his brow. “Don’t go away,” he whispered.

Tom smiled faintly. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“In here,” Chris said, kissing his temple. “You go away and…”

“And you can’t follow?”

Chris swallowed, and blinked down. “Something like that.”

“You know what I think?”

Casting cautious eyes up at him, Chris waited.

“I think that you and I were meant to meet in the dead of winter.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” He paused. “I didn’t…I had no way of knowing that this was how I would feel.”

Chris leaned closer, trying to catch his eye. “Feel?”

“For – for a man.”

Smiling gently, Chris pulled him a little closer. “We are just people. We care for others, its’s how we carry on. What’s between our legs, while lovely, should never dictate what we can or can’t feel. What matters is what truly beats here,” he finished softly, placing his big hand on the slim concave of Tom’s chest.

“You are a romantic,” Tom said, lips widening into a grin.

“You sound surprised.”

“I never would have figured it, from that first time we met.” He still remembered how guarded Chris had been, a little suspicious of Tom’s presence before he’d found out about his Aunt Minnow’s death. He’d seemed cold and distant, a man hardened by a life rougher than Tom’s had ever been. But he couldn’t have been more wrong about him.

“I hardly knew you then, did I,” Chris said.

“You didn’t know me at all!”

“Maybe,” Chris murmured. “But I’m sorry if I gave you any poor impressions.”

“They were short lived. You fed me and kept me from freezing.” He smiled and kept his tone regal. “I have changed my mind entirely about you.”

“Is that so?” Chris said, eyes shining with a wicked glint, playful. “My haughty aristocrat.”

Tom laughed. “I am anything but!”

“Aristocrat, then.”

“Ha! Stop.”

“And I, your lowly servant.”

Tom stilled slowly, sliding his hands around Chris’s back. “You are anything but,” he whispered.

Humming, Chris caught his lips in a teasing kiss, and they settled deeper, heavier, into the mattress, sheets twisting around them.

“Do you feel better about me?” Chris mouthed at his throat. “You were intimated before. I could tell. You’re not afraid?”

He spoke so freely, without the restrictions with which Tom had been raised, the polite propriety in conversation and attitude, in respectful distances from person and mind. Chris touched Tom openly now, when he wanted, which was _often_. But even Tom had been aware, if somewhat vaguely, of the attention Chris paid him in the early days of his stay at the house. So silent, hovering, observing. It had made Tom somewhat uneasy, if only from the sudden strangeness of his new circumstances. But he had been greatly comforted by the man, too, as time went on. That he might rely on his continued company, always close, always available should Tom have need of him.

“No,” he breathed, hips flexing upward to touch the firm belly above him. “No, I am not afraid of you. I don’t think I ever was. You just surprised me. I hadn’t expected anyone to be here. I had thought I was alone.”

“No,” Chris echoed. “No, dearest.”

“Sometimes,” Tom gasped, eyes rolling as Chris placed his mouth, hot and strong, on his neck and sucked. “Sometimes it’s like you can – ah – you can read my mind.” He laughed, flinching when Chris cupped his jaw and angled his head back.

“The skin here is so smooth, so pale. So soft.” Chris lapped at it with his tongue, as if he hadn’t heard Tom, widening his mouth and biting tenderly. Tom hissed and felt the heat of his blood flooding his core, felt himself swelling with it. Chris made a sound, almost like a whimper, and his hips snapped down.

“Would spring have made such a difference?” Tom mused, mostly to himself, glazed eyes on the ceiling. His vision was still slightly blurry from their struggle through the storm, his sight sensitive to sharp light and cold. But his desire clouded his senses now, adding to the blurriness of his eyes. “Would we have hesitated? How could that be? Spring is when things are born. It doesn’t make sense to me. One look at you in the meadow full of flowers and everything would still be the same. I’m sure of it. This awakening in me. You have drawn it out.”

“You mean I could still kiss and hold you? Even in the spring?”

Tom laughed, tickled by the bristles of Chris’s growing beard. “Yes!”

“I could find you wherever you were and know I could touch you? Expect a warm smile from you? I do love your smiles.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Touch you…even here?” His hand crept down and cupped him. Tom inhaled, shifting closer, hard and throbbing. The heat of his face bled into the smooth curve of Chris’s shoulder, and he felt Chris smile against his neck as he settled over him again, their cores stirring and hardening impossibly more. Moving, panting, spiraling, Tom felt decidedly relieved that the light of day hadn’t spooked his feelings for Chris into darker, unobtainable corners of his heart, where fear of mocking or shame at the opinions of others might seal away his emotions, stunting them just as they’d begun to take root and sprout.

But no, in the daylight, Chris was impossibly bigger, heavier, his strength and size dazzling to Tom, who caressed the swell of muscle and round buttocks like new territory he may lay claim to, his feet tracing the long lines of thigh and calves, soft with golden down. So much the same as his own, and so vastly different. He was slight and pale, Chris was heavy and firm, golden and strong, a veritable Achilles. Such a presence was impossible to ignore, impossible to forget. Whatever was started would be seen to its end, or he very well might perish at the thought of losing Chris just when he’d found him. He vowed to refuse, digging his nose into Chris’s hair and clasping him around the neck.

“Nothing will happen,” Chris moaned, wincing as he thrust. His voice was a harsh huff of air. “I am yours.”

_Mine_ , he exulted, a small sob escaping him. The sudden urge to smooth back the soft hairs at Chris’s temples was overwhelming. Scrambling in their haste, they clawed and grabbed at each other, Chris biting at his throat, Tom gripping at his hair, rubbing, rising, tugging, clashing almost violently until they both crested their tight spirals of pleasure, shivering and heaving, wet and sticky once more. The fire crackled and the wind rushed, and they let their lips meet in the gentlest rasp, aftershocks dizzying them.

“The meadow,” Chris said, carding his fingers through Tom’s long curls, “is really very beautiful in spring. I can’t wait for you to see the flowers. I will bring you bouquets of them.”

Tom grinned and embraced him, thinking that he already might have.


	7. The Shore

The storm kept them sequestered inside the house for six days, banks of snow as tall as Chris piled high against the wooden front doors and blocked the view from the lower floor windows. But there was plenty of firewood and Chris kept the hearths roaring and the coal oven hot. He made every meal, accompanied by Tom in the kitchen, both in robes and slippers, sitting side by side rather than across.

Chris touched him at leisure. He liked to link elbows while they walked, or cup the back of Tom’s neck, each a gentle but possessive gesture that Tom found himself yearning for. They embraced in the library or on the stairs, in the scullery with its crooked piles of vegetable tins and high windows glinting on the rejected pieces of chipped porcelain. Tom no longer slept alone, the storm and immensity of emotion pulling them both to his bed every night, where he slept against Chris’s chest and didn’t wake once to the sound of lace dragging or tip-toe footsteps.

“How are your eyes?” Chris asked, rubbing the pad of his thumb softly on Tom’s lashes.

Indeed, his eyes were improving slightly. The snow and winds had blinded him enough that his sight had remained somewhat blurry. He could see adequately when up close to something, but details were lost once he was a few feet back. They remained dry and irritated, and he tried not to worry at them with his restless fingers.

“Getting better,” he said, blinking quickly to encourage the moisture.

“It’s the winds that did it,” Chris whispered. “I should have protected you better.”

“Short of clamping your hands on my face, there wasn’t much you could have done. You got me out of that storm safely. I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll keep the warm tea packets on them before bed nevertheless.”

The snow eased into harmless drifts by weeks’ end, and Chris braved the weather to start shoveling the entrance clear. Wrapped in coat and scarf, he climbed out a window in the library’s top balcony, pulled back in for a quick kiss from Tom before jumping down into a tall mound. A plume of powder burst upward and Tom laughed, leaning out to check for him. When Chris emerged, it was with a smile, wide and so bright Tom’s heart hitched. He waved down at him and watched as Chris climbed out and shook off the excess white from his clothes. The farther he walked the blurrier he became, and Tom rubbed at his eyes in annoyance.

From the other side of the front door he could hear him, the rasp of the shovel clearing the path one stroke at a time. Inside, alone and cold in the foyer, he stood suddenly uneasily, the air pressing in on his head a little heavier. Somewhere a ticking had started, and a whistling like from a draft, yet distant. The grandfather clock sat silent in the minutes between the hour mark, imposing even from where Tom spied it through the library door. Rubbing his arms, he turned and cast his gaze up at the towering ceiling, its height intimidating him, unnerving.

He just needed to distract himself. Perhaps he would continue with tossing out the unwanted clutter from the attic, gathering the rest of the volumes that were sodden and useless with moisture. If this house were truly his, he would need to start addressing it as such, making the place his own. Unless of value, there would be no need to keep things that had belonged to other people, strangers to him.

Very suddenly, and almost imperceptibly, everything went silent, even the shovel rasps from beyond the closed doors. Turning with a frown, he waited a beat and then hurried back through the entrance hall, pressing his ear to the stiff wood.

No sound, nothing.

“Chris?” His breath plumed in the frigid air.

Flattening his palms, he tried pushing the doors open but they refused to budge, the mounds of snow on the other side still heavy and immovable.

“Darling?” His voice rose with a slight tremor, the empty spaces of the house looming up behind him as he struggled with the door. Somewhere, he heard a soft drag of heavy material, like velvet. Turning with wide eyes, he saw nothing. Pushing again, he threw his shoulder into the seam of the two doors and he felt it give an inch, satisfying but not enough. Shoulder smarting, he peered out. There was nothing but crusted white powder packed solidly on the other side, flakes of it tumbling in toward him.

“Chris, please,” he whispered, his voice too low for anyone to hear. But a moment later a dark mitten dug its way through the snow, scooping handfuls of it out of the way. Chris’s face appeared on the other side, cheeks red from the cold, eyes narrowed with anger.

“Tom,” he said, and Tom blinked, frozen by the urgency in Chris’s voice.

“What is it?”

“I hear something. Dogs.”

“What? Where?”

But Chris was already turning away, squinting out towards the fields. His voice was quiet. “Poachers, most like. I had trouble with them last season. They follow herds into your lands. They could be braving the last of the storm now, knowing I won’t be out there. It’s illegal and I’ve already warned them off. I need to go.”

“Wait! You’re leaving?” But the door was still blocked, he wouldn’t be able to get out – he tried to quell the rising panic in his chest, wishing he could reach through the small opening and take Chris’s hand.

“I’ll be an hour, maybe two. I can track them.” Chris met his eyes, and Tom saw with a twist of his heart that snowflakes had settled on his long lashes like beads on silk.

“Darling, must you? The herds will be all right, and they have dogs. They might hurt you.”

“I have to. I know this is all your property, Tom, but those woods are mine. They always have been. The poachers aren’t welcome here, and they know it. And still they come.” The angry bent to his brow was arresting, Tom unable to tear his gaze away.

“You will be careful?” he whispered, and Chris softened.

“Yes, sweetheart. Will you wait for me?”

Tom smiled and stuck his naked fingers through the crack in the door. “Yes, darling. I will.”

Chris squeezed them with his own mittened hand, and then disappeared from view, cold wind and searing white sky replacing where he stood. Sighing, Tom pulled the doors closed again and turned to face his house.

It was suddenly wrong, all of it. His place in that vast expanse of brick and stone, the towering monolith of decades and lives that had passed through. Where he stepped, where he glanced up at the faded wallpaper, a hand on the bannister of the very staircase. None of it felt like his own, like it had never been his to begin with. And without Chris in the house it made his skin crawl, the oppressive presence that had slowly begun oozing through the splintered cracks in the ceiling corners, in the slabs of marble that held the foundation. Already he could feel the distance between him and Chris, imagining him stopping at his cabin for a shotgun or some other kind of weapon. An ax, probably. Such hands were formed to wield axes. Arming himself before sprinting into the woods and toward men who would consider hurting him to hunt as they pleased. How would Tom know if he was okay? How would he know when he would return?

An hour, two at the most, Chris had said. He would hold him to that.

In the meantime, he would focus on the chores he’d been meaning to get through. Chris would be back in time for lunch.

Only he wasn’t. After dressing, the late afternoon hours drifted by as slow and painful as a knife in soft flesh. The wound widened with every passing minute. Worry settled over him like a shroud. Crouched in the attic, he sorted more papers, discarding them by the entrance and its rickety steps leading downward. Such a narrow space, confining.

He would clear this clutter, he would.

The house gave a minor tremble, the winds outside mounting. Lifting his head to the ceiling, he stared and listened. Out the window, he saw nothing but sea, waves tossing and crashing, the surf bone-white and dotted with weeds. He could see only a short sliver of woods from this angle, the cliff cutting low to the east, pitted rocks meeting broken shards of unforgiving sand. The trees were thinner by the water’s edge, limbs bare and broken. The cabin was hidden from him farther to the west.

He was about to turn away, resign himself once more to the mess in the room, when something caught his sight in the far distance. A smudge, a dark shadow, but blue maybe, like Chris’s coat. But he couldn’t see that far, couldn’t make out the exact shape. Damn the storm and damn his vision.

Nose pressed to the glass, he squinted to the east. Was it him? What was he doing by the beach? He didn’t like the water. He would never follow the poachers there. Was he hurt? Disoriented? It had been much longer than the two hours Chris had told him he would be gone, and Tom needed to see for himself.

Spinning on his heel he smacked head on with something big and smelling of dusty lilacs, crushed velvet and long hair. A woman?

Forehead thrumming, he blinked at the distorted figure, shifting wildly, a vision of fuzzy lace and high collar, before he crumpled to the floor in a heap.

**

He was moving.

No. That wasn’t right.

He was floating, a soft smooth descent through the attic stairs, past his bedroom and the long hallway with its damp-bitten sconces and hand carved eaves. His mind was muddy, dank and unfamiliar to him, unable to focus on a single thing. He couldn’t lift a hand to grip the bannister of the twisting staircase, the tips of his shoes just barely grazing the marble steps, couldn’t stop himself from drifting further, through the foyer, the doors opening with a tremendous groan and crash against the snow mounds built up outside. With no coat, he should be freezing but he felt nothing, not even the wind on his face. His eyes didn’t burn, he could see clearly but he wasn’t himself. He knew it.

Around the side of the house he went, hovering in the air. The bank of snow Chris had jumped into from the library window was still there, its center blown open from his heavy landing.

Chris.

Something tugged at his brain, something that had been urgent before but now wasn’t. He needed to get to the sea. He wanted into the water. He must hurry.

Faster he went now, dropping almost like a stone over the lip of the cliff and down, down to the beach. But he didn’t slam into the ground as he should have from such a great height, only drifted further, limbs limp, eyes peeled at the slow approach of the waterline.

Behind him, as if through a murky fog, he heard his name. A shout. Panic and fear. His name. His name again. Faintly, he turned and spied a figure scrambling down the broken rocks of the cliff, sliding precariously, sharp stones tumbling down in his wake. A blue coat.

His shoes breached water and it lapped lazily at his ankles as he floated further in. He jerked his head around, the first spiral of fear he’d felt since being taken from the house plummeting through his stomach.

“Tom!”

Blue coat. Blue coat. Curl of blond hair. His eyes squeezed shut, his fingers clenched mid-air, and still he drifted into the water, grey and brown, a cold English sea. He tried to stop the momentum of his own body, but there was something twisted tightly around his spine, like a cruel hand digging into bone, driving him forward.

“Tom, no!”

“Chris,” he mumbled, and then shuddered to a stop, pain lancing down his back. He was several dozen feet out, the water dragging at his waist, tickling the knuckles of his hands lying limply over the surface. He could not feel the sand bottom. Somewhere behind him, Chris paced.

“Tom.” It was a ragged sob, broken, full of despair and desperation. Chris feared the water, he remembered. But when the searing grip vanished from his spine, Tom was plunged into its icy depths, the freezing cold slamming into his veins, his lungs seizing from it. Convulsing, he flailed under the terrible weight of the ocean, his clothes and shoes doing more to drag him down than his floundering did to get him to the surface. His eyes flew open, burning from the salt and the cold, but he saw nothing, only the black abyss surrounding him, pressing inward in its hunger for him.

He screamed, and water flooded his throat. He scratched at his neck, throwing a hand upward, where he knew the sky and air lived abundantly, but it got him nowhere. The cold had paralyzed him, made his limbs useless. He would die in these waters and no one would bury him. As the edges of his vision began crackling with death, a long arm snaked around his waist and snapped him backward. Dragged through the current, he was lifted and tugged, battered in the salty waves as he was propelled through the filmy surface and toward the beach. A strong embrace handled him roughly but urgently, plopping him onto the sand, hands scrambling at his face.

“Tom. Tom, please.”

His lungs squeezed painfully, he couldn’t contract a single breath. His burning eyes stared helplessly at the blank gray above him, at the swollen, shimmery figure that moved and shifted.

“Breathe, goddammit. Tom, breathe!”

His waistcoat was torn open, buttons popping, the collar of his shirt ripped in two and Tom was reminded of something, of a hot bed and hungry lips, of hands on his chest, before the freezing air struck the skin of his chest and he arched in pain.

“Yes, it’s me. It’s Chris. You need to remember me. You need to breathe.”

Eyelids flickering, smeary sky and smeary figure crouching over him. Chest exposed, he started shivering, head tightening with alarm and no air.

“I am sorry,” he heard before a large fist was raised in the air and brought down on his chest in a hard swoop.

Water burst from his mouth, puddles of it spewed on the sand. He coughed and retched, eyes and throat burning, stomach lurching in a sickening twist. But he drew in air in a ragged, hoarse inhalation, hands trembling, curled over his middle. Someone rubbed his back, murmured gently at him, and he blinked, the sand and pulse of ocean waves still hazy. His eyes were shot once more.

“I couldn’t hear you,” a voice deep like honey whispered, a voice he knew well. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Chris,” he croaked, his voice like gravel, teeth chattering to near breaking.

“Oh, my dearest. Yes, it’s me. Come here.”

He was swept up against a broad chest, his face pressed to a warm throat.

“Breathe,” he was soothed, a hand spread wide on his clavicle. “Keep breathing, my heart.”

Tom’s mind was slowly returning to him, the moments at the attic window, the startled collision with – a woman? How did he end up at the beach? How had he almost drowned?

“Something had you, Tom. Something had you in its clutches. You weren’t yourself. You looked right at me and you didn’t – you didn’t know me.” His head dipped low. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“What – couldn’t hear – what?”

Chris cradled his head and palmed his face. But then his eyes widened and he drew his hand back, staring at it in shock. Tom saw the gouges in both palms, remnants of his hasty trip down the cliff face. Touching his own cheek, his fingers came away reddened with Chris’s blood, splotches of it on his chest where Chris had pounded life back into him. 

Looking pale and a little wild, Chris said, “Let’s get you inside.”

Soaked himself, Chris still exuded a warmth Tom tried to burrow into, no matter their trembling, the ice water dripping from their clothes. He clung to him when Chris lifted him into his arms and made the trek the long way around the cliffs, the house standing dark and silent at its peak. He didn’t seem to tire, his energy fueled by what Tom presumed was fresh fear. Exhausted as he was, he couldn’t focus on it, lapsing in and out of consciousness, head lolling on Chris’s shoulder as he climbed and hurried through the chilled air and up the front steps.

He settled Tom in a deep armchair in the library, rushing to strike a flint and get a fire going. The flames danced to life, flickering over Tom’s drooping eyes, the heat like a rush on his skin, painful but welcome. Chris disappeared from the room for a few moments and came back with blankets. Kneeling before Tom, he started unbuckling the rest of his clothes, removing his shoes and pulling off his shirt. Tom moved listlessly with him, unable to help. But something prodded in his mind, insistent. He hesitated, drawing back, eyes pinched with confusion.

“What did you say, outside? On the beach? Was I calling for you? I couldn’t – I don’t think I could speak.” Bizarre and jarring, his recollection of what had just happened was patchy and distorted. Thoughts in chaos, he could feel his panic begin to creep higher. His memory was splintered.

Lifting his eyes in a quick flash, Chris continued fussing with his clothes. “You’ll freeze in these. Let me take them off of you.”

Tom snatched his collar closed. “What did you say to me, Chris? Outside?”

Taking a slow breath, Chris closed his eyes. “I said I couldn’t hear you.”

Confusion muddled Tom’s features, drawing his brows together. “But how could you have heard me? Were you by the beach? Because I thought I saw you there.”

“No, Tom. I was in the woods. The poachers kept heading deeper in. I was out there for hours tracking them. I never did see them, or their dogs. I was turning back when – when you just shut off in my head.”

“Shut off? What on earth are you talking about?” His own mind was frantic with reasons as to why he had ended up on the beach, what had happened in the attic that left fuzzy blanks in his memory. How had he landed in the water? Who had he seen if not Chris? Not the poachers, certainly. The mystery of Chris’s odd words and his own maddening predicament only served to twist his thoughts even further, isolating him from a truth he felt was just out of reach.

“I can…I can hear your thoughts, Tom.”

Tom blinked, his mind zipping to a quiet hum. He said nothing, Chris’s words echoing faintly in his head, leaden and sluggish.

“I could always hear you, even that first day coming in from the woods, or every time you were cold and needed a fire. I could hear you when you were hungry or thirsty or cold because you have this mouthwatering way of thinking of food and drink and heat but never making it for yourself, and that’s more than all right because I would do it for you, always. I could hear you when I was on that second hunt, when you got so ill and you moaned for me and thought of me while you shivered with fever. You asked the sky not to rain on me. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't rest, knowing how you suffered. I heard when you were thinking of staying in town for the storm, and I hadn't been able to bear it, the distance from you or not knowing how long we would be separated. I hear all of what you feel for me, everything, and I’m afraid you’ll come to fear me like so many others, for my gift.” He fell silent, eyes pleading on Tom.

Fingers tightening at his torn collar, the silence stretched into a thin, razor sharp edge, until Chris shifted on his knees.

“Please say something.”

_I can hear your thoughts, Tom._

The absurdity of it - of all of it - cleaved Tom’s attention and he snapped to, dropping his eyes.

“Please leave me.”

Alarm on his face, Chris squeezed his knee. “No, Tom, please – .”

“I do not feel well.” Chris visibly recoiled at the harsh, clipped tone of Tom’s voice, the cold distance. “I need to rest. You should too, I think. Such irrational exclamations bear no weight when I can’t focus on them as I would like. It was something we ate. Maybe.” Chris stared at him, distraught disbelief heavy on his features. “Excuse me.” He made to stand but Chris grabbed his shoulders.

“No,” he rasped. It seemed the only word he was capable of. “You said you weren’t afraid of me.”

“Please move.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t remove yourself from me like this.” He pulled at Tom as Tom pushed at him, both still careful, still weak with cold. Their fingers, their lips, were blue.

“I don’t feel well –.”

“I couldn’t hear you. Our ribbon – our ribbon was broken. Do you know how terrified I was?”

“I can’t answer that. It doesn’t make any sense!”

“I am trying to show you –.”

“Let me go.”

“You’re being stubborn –.”

Tom shoved at him, hard. “I almost drowned!”

Chris fell back with a wince, dropping his hold on Tom’s shoulders. Breathing hard, Tom rose on trembling feet, clutching his ruined clothing as tightly as he could over the bare skin of his chest. Staring down at his kneeling form, he took a ragged breath.

“I almost drowned, Chris,” he said again, a broken sob stuck in his throat. His face, he realized with growing horror, was collapsing with grief. “I was up there in that godforsaken attic and I thought I saw you. You! Out by the beach. It had been hours! And I was worried! What happened next, I can’t rightly tell because it seemed like a bloody hallucination. Some kind of waking dream. Complete rubbish!”

Eyes downcast, Chris shook his head. “Then how do you explain –.”

“No!” Tom shouted. “You do not speak!”

Chris’s jaw tightened, the muscles clenching. It was suddenly too much for Tom to bear.

“Go now. Please.”

Sighing, Chris slowly rose, his height and proximity making Tom take a small step back. The gesture stilled Chris.

 “Who will light your fires, dearest? Who will make your meals?”

Tom kept his gaze on the floor. “I will manage.” He wasn’t sure what was happening, how it had escalated so quickly. But Chris’s confession had created a sudden chasm in him, one he couldn’t cross so blindly to that place of comfort he had felt before.

“No,” Chris said again, a deep, gentle growl. He closed the distance and took Tom’s arm. Instinctively, Tom caught Chris’s own elbow. It was hard and muscled, like the rest of him, making him pale with longing and tender alarm. “No. You will not manage. I’ll walk in here and find you dead on the stairs, or in your bed, or in your porcelain tub, all ivory, bloodless skin, and whatever is in this fucking house will have won by ridding you from it.”

Choking on a gasp, Tom blinked widely at him, cringing back. Chris quickly released his arm.

“As long as I can still hear you. I’m sorry,” he finished softly. He turned on his heel and retreated to the front door. Opening it, he looked once more at Tom and then whispered something unintelligible, casting the staircase a glance full of loathing. And then he was gone, and Tom fell back into the arm chair with a sob, his tears scalding on his own face.

**

The trip up the stairs to his room was eternal. One hand holding his tattered clothes, the other gripping the bannister, he took one step and then another, over and over, until he was at his bedroom door. Vision foggy from his tears, he brushed them away sharply, anger and despair raging through him. Tripping inside, slamming shut the door, teeth gritted as he seethed and threw aside the tattered rags on him, his voice bouncing around the cavernous space, a distorted echo to mock him.

Chris was gone. Tom had told him to leave. How had this happened?

But still he felt it, that tug of ribbon between them, the inexorable proof that something existed there, a connection Chris had sworn he’d felt severed. The thought gave him pause, wondering what kind of terror he would have experienced had he been the one to feel the connection cut. It was a relief, nevertheless, knowing it remained.

Shivering, he flung the thought aside and set about filling the tub. Sinking into its boiling waters with a soft groan, he scrubbed at his skin, ridding it of salt and blood and cold. Limbs reddened, he lay back against the smooth porcelain and remembered Chris’s words, still so fresh in his mind. That he would find Tom here, dead, or elsewhere in the house.

The house. An eerie entity to be sure, but diabolical? He couldn’t pinpoint what it was that had upset him the most, his inability to explain how he’d ended up in the freezing waters or Chris’s confession of clairvoyance, a fantastical claim, an absurdity. His stomach gave a faint growl and he stared down at himself. There, on the jutted point of his hipbone, was a dark bruise left by Chris’s mouth. Ignoring it and his growing hunger, he pulled himself from the tub and into the warmest clothes he owned, determination hardening his jaw, doubt twisting his troubled heart.


	8. The Breath Held

Maybe it was his palpable anger, but the house was quiet for several days after. He rose in the shivering dawn and prepared himself a measly meal of boiled eggs and toast – nothing of the jams and butter and fattened sausages Chris would have made for him. Still, his heart would skip a beat whenever he opened the front door to find parcels wrapped in wax paper, loaves of glazed bread dotted with chunks of fruit and nuts, dried meats, jars of dark honey. He knew who they were from, and he gathered them to his chest and held them gently. Staring at the cabin, he willed for Chris to come out but he was always nowhere to be seen. In all honesty, these small gifts sustained him through his meager attempts to work the giant cast iron stove. The honey drizzled on the fruit bread was his favorite, and he wondered vaguely if Chris could feel his pleasure before scoffing at himself.

The skies cleared and he returned to work, walking down the path that first day because he’d had to leave his bike stranded at the stop. He politely defused any of Mr. Wimple’s inquiries about Chris, saying only that he was a hired man and didn’t know much about him. He could be a madman, he thought savagely as he stacked books in the corner, but then felt shame burn through him, half-afraid Chris had heard him. It was a disingenuous and cruel thought, and Chris didn’t deserve it.

In fact, the idea had begun to settle itself a little too familiarly in his gut, this acknowledgement of Chris’s supposed heightened mental ability. He had begun guarding his thoughts, or catching himself after particularly intimate ones, wondering if Chris knew.

He missed him in the mornings, when raspy kisses would wake him and he would feel their tingling burn through lunch time. He missed him in the library, the place Chris most often snuck up on him, wrapping him close from behind, his nose at the nape of Tom’s neck, taking a great big inhale as if he hadn’t known to breathe before that moment. He missed him cooking at the stove, and not just because Tom often went hungry without those loving meals, but because the scent of bread and jam and honey often lingered on Chris’s skin and in his hair for hours after, as warm and sweet as if the delicacies had only just melted on Tom’s tongue.

He missed him at night, when it was coldest, when he was the most hungry, when just a glance of Chris would have satiated every craving Tom had. It was when the house was most active, the noises harder to ignore, harder to explain away. Lying there under his sheets, he stared at the window and pressed his spirit to the glass, knowing in his very heart that Chris wasn’t sleeping either.

Above him, the ceiling scraped, and he could have sworn to the saints that it was shifting inch by inch.

He never looked to the sea.

**

Every afternoon he returned home from work, the hearths in the library and his bedroom would be lit. Despite Chris’s obvious dislike for the house, he still ventured inside to do these small things for Tom, and it was hard to resent him for it. In all honesty, the more time that passed the harder it was for Tom to fully justify his ire. He spent his time amidst towering stacks of books, staining his fingers with ink and swelling his mind with lines of literature that did more to thicken his sense of loss than ground him in any kind of certainty. It upset him the way things had turned out.

And always the staircase creaked, and the fireplaces flared as he passed by rooms he started to suspect weren’t really empty anymore. It was enough to chill the blood in his veins, enough for the deep longing in his chest borne of Chris’s presence to palpitate and squirm.

The snow started again during the night and he couldn’t find a spot warm enough in bed. Already his hot bath was a distant skin memory, chills erupting over him as another heavy gust of wind struck the side of the house. The hour was late but not yet midnight. He hoped to fall asleep soon or else risk another drowsy morning at the book shop. In the library below the grandfather clock began chiming, the deep timbre thrumming through the house and vibrating faintly through the floorboards of his room. One chime, and then two. It was midnight. It had to be. But the sudden silence after only three chimes had him sitting up in bed, brow knitted in confusion.

Only three chimes? But that couldn’t be.

Embers burning low in the hearth, there was little light in the room to see by, and it made him hesitate, safe there in his bed. It wasn’t possible it was three in the morning. He hadn’t lain awake that long, thinking, casting his spirit out the window and to the forest’s edge. Should he investigate? And yet, the murky dark and the freezing floor kept him rooted in the small hollow he’d burrowed for himself. It wasn’t until hours later, after he’d dressed and let the brittle sunlight shred through his nocturnal fears, a cup of steaming tea in hand, that he saw it.

The crack was deep and jagged, the face of the grandfather clock split nearly in two down the middle, splintering even into the elegant wooden base, oiled, a deep walnut, but destroyed. It stood before him, deadened and imposing. He couldn’t explain how it could have happened, what kind of force – or emotion – was required to create so deep a fissure in the face of the clock. Unnerved, he left it as it was, unsure how to salvage it from such damage. Ignoring the trembling feeling of being watched, he squared his shoulders and climbed the short staircase to the upper mezzanine, the rose window casting the floor in jeweled tones. The worn rug hollowed his footsteps, muting the soft thuds. He came to a corner he hadn’t yet explored, the books here not as ruined by the damp.

Skimming his fingers over the rough edges, he found the volume pressed between two peeling encyclopedias, a book with the title _Hauntings: the Veil between Life and Death by Joseph Arnold._ With his cup of tea at his side, he settled into an armchair and cracked open the stiff spine to a page in the middle.

                _The consistency of a haunting often fluctuates. There is a great pull of power in the land, in the soil and press of mulch and grasses. Spirits often become attached to a patch of earth, chained to it by violent occurrences, battles or more intimate conflicts that concluded in sudden death. These lingering imprints of a person, fueled by intense emotion, will haunt, sometimes residually, any building or persons that happen upon the location of their demise, playing out in an eternal loop the moment of their death.  Intelligent hauntings – spirits that are aware of their fate and the difference between their existences of that of a living person, become attached to objects or buildings, and even individual people, following where it or they go. Conscientious and understanding, they present a broader problem in terms of personal space and privacy, approaching the living in much more intimate – and disturbing – ways than a residual haunting would._

_But what is perhaps most concerning about intelligent entities are the powerful reactions one might receive at the topic of change. During their years of life, a place might have looked one way and then undergone dramatic shifts in décor and foundational structure as time passes and styles or attitudes change. An increase in paranormal activity will occur should such changes take place where before activity had been dormant. One can conclude that it is a glaring sign the spirits are displeased._

Tom paused in his reading, eyes flicking up at the ceiling. He wished he could speak to his Aunt Minnow, ask her if she’d experienced any kind of paranormal activity when she’d lived here as a young girl, or even more recently before her death. But with her gone, he had no way of knowing if anything he’d been experiencing was, well, normal. In a sense. And now that he thought about it, he had been throwing a lot of things out of the house, old documents and paperwork, sagging furniture and moldy books. Had his tidying up been a trigger for an increase in activity, as Mr. Arnold suggested?

He shut the book and dropped it on the side table, his tea gone cold. The entire thing sat uneasily in his gut, the superstitions and the growing doubts that kept him awake at night. Remembering the first few weeks adjusting to life in the country, to the vast spaces of the manor, the looming ceilings and dank corners, the noises that started creeping into his quiet moments the longer he stayed on. He had never really been at ease all the time he’d lived here, except for those few, lovely moments with Christopher. Leaning his head against his hand, Tom sighed and closed his eyes, feeling defeated. But then a tendril of anger began sprouting between his ribs, and his eyes snapped open.

If there was anything about which he was certain it was that he didn’t want this house, and he had the sinking sensation that the house didn’t want him either. The realization was swift and daunting and enormously liberating, the responsibility of his inheritance lifting off him with the single decision to simply reject it. What if he put the manor for sale, sold off the land and the stretch of beach he owned? Who would miss it?

“No one,” he whispered, thoughts already on the distant cabin by the forest’s edge, wondering at its interior, if it was as warm and lovely as its owner. Determined to avoid that quagmire of emotion, he rose to his feet and returned the volume to its place on the shelf. As he neared it, he hesitated, catching sight of the purple satin edge of another volume pressed flat behind the rows of books seated on the shelf. Setting the other aside, he pulled free the purple book, its back cover stuck to the wall from years of salt air and moisture. Crusted around the edges, the book was actually a diary of sorts, the yellowed pages falling open to reveal the faded lines of neat handwriting. Curious, he sat in the arm chair and crossed a leg over his knee, turning to the first page.

It was with a start that he realized it was his Aunt Minnow’s diary. Starting from her days as a young girl, the dates jumped dramatically, sometimes skipping months and years before a new entry was made. Settling in, he began to read.

_September 7_

_My birthday was yesterday. Mummy says eight is an age when young girls start behaving more according to their class, which is just her way of saying I’ll be attending more lessons that leave me with no time to play with Dinah. I don’t think she likes Dinah very much, says her eyes are too dark. What a ridiculous thing to remark about a person. And Dinah’s eyes are just brown, like chocolate. All of our eyes are blue like the sky, hardly ever blue like the ocean, so dark and scary. I don’t swim much, and my mummy wouldn’t let me anyway. Dinah swims nearly every day. Her papa showed her when she was still a baby, which doesn’t make sense to me. Their house skirts the edge of the village and the sea is close. Not like here, where I would have to climb down the cliff. I am not allowed on the beach. Sometimes at night, lights fetch me from sleep, sparkling over the ceiling. I run to the window to catch whatever it is, but I can never see anything. I think they come from the water._

                _November 19_

_I saw a boy today. Dinah had told me that she’d seen a yellow-haired boy in the woods but I didn’t believe her. Why would anyone be in there? But when I snuck away from mummy this morning Dinah led me to the trees. She lifted a hand to her mouth and gave a yelp, as if she were a wolf or some kind of dog. We waited a moment and then he came to us. His hair was yellow but dirty, hanging low to his shoulders, something mummy would say was ghastly and common. His clothes were limp and brown, and had fur on them. I realized they were skins. He was bigger than us, older, maybe fifteen, but he couldn’t use words. What’s wrong with him, I asked Dinah. She shook her head and said, I think he was raised by animals. I don’t know how long he’s been out there, but I can tell he is from the woods as much as I am from the house where I live. The snows will come any day now and I’m worried about him. And yet, I think he’s seen more winters than me. Dinah thinks he will be just fine. I hope she’s right._

_December 20_

_We are going on holiday to visit my grandmother. I am excited to go because presents and lights and hot chocolate on the quay with music and so much food, but I don’t want to leave Christopher. He’s a fast learner, his mouth forming words as soon as I teach them to him. He’s not reading yet but he’s speaking, and Dinah and I are ecstatic about it. We’ve named him Christopher because it was the first name that made him smile. Dinah promised me that she would continue teaching him while I am gone, and I’ll miss them. I’ll bring them each a present!_

Heart hammering, Tom swallowed and glanced at the window, wondering if the Christopher in the diary was the very same Christopher that he knew. And yet, his aunt mentioned that Christopher looked older, at least fifteen when she first met him at eight years old. If by age alone, none of it made sense. That would make him older than her by close to a decade, and she had passed away at ninety-four earlier in the year. Confused, but interested, he read on, noting the break in time between entries.

                _September 6_

_I’m sixteen today, and frankly, I’m exhausted. Mother has kept me busy these last several years. I certainly didn’t have time for keeping a diary, my day planned for me with lessons in music, etiquette, language, and history. I wish I’d gone to boarding school, but Mother insisted I stay in the country, observing my education herself. Any spare time I have I spend with Dinah and Christopher. He’s built himself a small house at the woods’ edge, my Father giving him lumber and other materials. He’s been working for the family for several years now, his speech quiet but confident, thanks to mine and Dinah’s efforts. And he’s so smart, knowing impossible things about the forest and about Dinah and I. He’s observant. It’s how he wins at all our games. He takes care of maintenance and groundskeeping, his strength useful to Father, who has grown slight in his advanced age. Every day it seems Dinah and I grow and change, but not Christopher. Apart from cutting his hair and wearing the clothes Father gave him, he looks the same. I hope Mother releases me from lessons today. I would love to spend it with Dinah and Christopher. I know he’s baked me a cake!_

_July 1_

_Mother and Father are gone. A summer’s illness took them swiftly. I was away visiting with a cousin and had been gone several weeks. The letter I received from Dinah almost tore my heart in two. I came back on the first train available, the house echoing and empty. Christopher and Dinah helped me pack up their things and take them to the attic. You own this now, Dinah whispered to me, taking my hand and squeezing. I could only lay my head on her shoulder and sigh. Twenty-two and unmarried, the mistress of a seaside estate. We’ll get on just fine, Christopher said, and I believe him. I believe him. I cried into Dinah’s hair last night, and the most extraordinary thing happened. My sadness was this deep well inside me, my tears trying to fill the emptiness left by my parents’ deaths. But Dinah came into my room and slipped into bed beside me. She usually keeps her hair in a long braid during the day, but it was loose and long and curled down her back, and I buried my face in it and cried more. She held me and whispered that she would never leave me. And then she kissed me. It was…the most astounding thing. I burn now just thinking of it, her soft lips on mine, so full and plump, lips I know by memory from years of friendship. I was startled, frozen beside her. But she smiled and kissed me again, and I kissed her back, giving in to something I might have known all my life. Her skin is so smooth, so like mine, I had trouble discerning her from me. In the dark, in the day, we are the same. She made me feel things I’ve never felt before, burning things, things made of flame and crimson, a rush through me. Her fingers were wet from me, my mouth bruised from her, and we lay the rest of the night in each other’s arms. This person, my friend since infancy, I’ve always known how beautiful she was, how kind and loyal. And now I knew how loving. My sadness might wane and never disappear, but I am certain I will always have her. And this thought sustains me._

Tom shifted in his seat, face warm at this new revelation of his aunt’s sexual relationship with the mysterious servant woman he’d heard of but never seen. Had they remained together all these decades? Is that why the woman had left so suddenly after his aunt’s death?

_December 19_

_Christopher shot down a lovely buck for Christmas dinner, and he and Dinah kept to the kitchen preparing the meal. I would have helped but I can’t cook to save my own life. It was warm and festive. I hung baubles and lights and put on music in the library, the melody echoing through the house and making us smile. We ate dinner in the dining room, the table – usually seating twenty – was made up for just the three of us. But it felt right, our little family. And I loved every minute of it. I think Christopher knows about me and Dinah. We came down for breakfast one morning and she touched my elbow just so. He looked up from the stove and stared a little blindly before going red up to his hairline. But he smiled and nodded and continued with the food. I’m happy now that I was never sent abroad for my studies. I am quite content to not have established acquaintances that would now require constant communication and visitations. Our little corner in the world is just fine for me._

_October 24_

_It was hard for me to see it at first, but now I think I know. It’s been years now since we found Christopher in the woods, since my parents’ deaths, since Dinah and I became inseparable. And as lines began to appear on our faces and white streaks in our hair, he remained the same. As if, once he reached a certain maturity, he simply stopped aging. He is tall and so strong, his hair thick and blond, his face smooth, skin supple and ruddy with youth. And yet, he is older than us. It makes no sense. Dinah doesn’t seem worried about it. She simply strokes his forehead in sweet affection and asks him for a story of the woods. He has plenty, of all the years he lived alone there, before us. I’ve asked him about where he came from, if he remembered his parents. He says he doesn’t. But he always looks off to the sea when we speak of this, his brow troubled. And I can’t help but be reminded of those nights long ago when lights from the water kept me awake. I can’t help but think they were looking for him. In any case, I’m not entirely sure I believe him when he says he doesn’t remember, but then I wonder why he would keep it to himself. Maybe he was abandoned, left for dead as a child, but being the smart, persistent fellow he is, he survived and lives here now, so quietly. I might try reading on the subject. I’m sure there’s a place in London that will have articles on this subject matter. Still, it’s hard to ignore his apparent eternal youth while Dinah and I climb steadily into our old age. But we do not begrudge him this. He doesn’t seem to know why either. Besides, he’s such a help to us, our strong young man, and we love him devotedly._

Tom noticed a change in the handwriting, the strong lilting loops replaced with a shaky, spidery scrawl. He wondered how many years had passed.

_August 30_

_I am dying. I can feel it deep in my bones. Dinah rubs my legs with liniment but the pain worsens. Sitting in the sun helps me, but I can no longer climb the stairs. I am confined to the bedroom, bundled up in blankets by the window where the sun bathes me with warmth. Writing is hard now, my hands tremble terribly. Outside, I can see Christopher chopping wood, his swings sure and strong, the ax landing with a solid stroke to split each log. He is a beauty, I envy his good health. He’ll want to hunt soon. He saves his long hunts for the end of summer, but I don’t think I’ll last the winter. I’ve spoken to Dinah about the house and she doesn’t want it, neither does Christopher. He actually gave a little scowl, and it made me laugh. I don’t want to leave the house abandoned, and yet, to whom will it be left? I think I’ll contact my solicitor and see if he can find any remaining family members. If they don’t want it, then I suppose the sea can claim it._

There were no more entries after that, but Tom could figure out the rest of the story. His aunt’s health had steadily declined, Chris had left on his hunt, she had died, the rights to the house were sorted and Tom was found as the remaining family member. Dinah had left, most likely mired in grief, and here he sat now, at the end of it all. Strangely, she made no mention of supernatural occurrences in the house, apart from seeing lights from the water. He recalled reading something about that in the newspapers he’d found in the attic. How was it all connected? And how was Chris involved?

With so few of his questions answered, Tom rose heavily to his feet, his aunt’s diary clutched gently in both hands. It was evening, and his stomach complained of hunger. But he wanted a bath first, to sit and mull over all that he’d learned. The foyer and staircase were dimly lit, his footsteps fading into quick silence as he ascended. There was a palpable thickness in the air, a faint resistance. He shrugged it off and entered his bedroom, laying the book on the table before he started removing his clothes. The heat of the water always lulled him to sleep, lying there submerged up to his chin. He hummed and slid his hand over the flat plane of his belly, his chest still mottled from where Chris had struck him on the beach to get him breathing again. Before he knew it, the pipes along the wall had settled into a quiet thrum and he’d fallen asleep.

He woke with a start, the echo of a snap hollowing through his muddy brain. The water was chilled when he rose to sit, blinking around and wondering if he’d dreamed it. When all remained silent, he stood carefully and reached for a towel. He lifted his leg and stepped out, but the wet rubbery slick of his foot slid on the marble and he lurched forward. He collapsed on the floor, his knee cracking painfully on the edge of the tub. Grimacing, he grabbed his leg and rubbed his bruising skin, the towel twisted under his hips.

It happened immediately after, the snapping noise he’d heard just before fully waking transforming into an unmistakable pop as a fissure splintered through the ceiling and a giant slab came crashing down onto the tub he had been lying in mere seconds before. The porcelain gave a mighty shriek as stone and wood crashed down its sides, shuddering violently before splitting in two. Water gushed out through the jagged crack and flooded over him, cascading over the floor, spreading everywhere. Heart hammering, Tom could only stare at what remained of his bathtub, sagging in the middle where it had broken. He had just been in there, lying asleep in the water. Had he remained only a minute longer, he might be dead. Chris’s voice sounded suddenly in his mind.

_I’ll walk in here and find you dead on the stairs, or in your bed, or in your porcelain tub, all ivory, bloodless skin—_

It was almost as if the house had heard him. Where else would it attempt to kill Tom? The stairs, as Chris predicted? His bed?

“No,” Tom gasped, rising to his knees, pain flaring up his leg from where he’d bumped it. A sob clogged in his throat, he rushed to his feet and slid his way into the bedroom, cold air wrapping over his shivering, wet body. There was no time to dress, he needed to get out. Grabbing his aunt’s journal and the robe hanging on the hook by the armoire, he flung it on and threw open the door. The darkness in the hallway was impenetrable, he couldn’t see even the outline of the staircase banister. It was just as likely he was standing on the lip of a bottomless chasm. He stood there, breathing harshly, the darkness pulsing like a heart. Retreating to his bedside, he lit the oil lamp and cradled it by its handle. Sash tied tightly around his waist, he crept back toward the door, pausing at the window when he saw movement outside. The curtains in Chris’s cabin flickered.

Swallowing down bile, Tom took courage from the knowledge that Chris was so close and pushed out into the hall.

The darkness surrounded him immediately, the orb of light from his oil lamp flickering weakly as he found the stairs and took the first few at a run. When something brushed the back of his neck, he jerked away and tripped, a cry lodged in his throat. Catching himself on the wall, he flattened himself against it and held the oil lamp high, eyes wide to see the perpetrator. But whatever spirit had touched him had swished out of sight, and he was left trembling and white-lipped halfway down the staircase. Steeling himself, he quickened his descent, his naked feet freezing on the cold marble floor, soles slapping as loudly as his panicked breaths.

Stumbling through the foyer, he misjudged the distance to the front doors and collided with them roughly. Pain spiked through his brow as heat trickled down his cheek, but he hardly noticed. He yanked open the doors and flew out into the night. The front steps were slippery with ice, his feet skidding dangerously. Landing on his backside, the oil lamp shattered and sputtered out, but he quickly climbed up and raced toward the woods, the feeble light of the moon through the high clouds guiding him. The meadow seemed endless, a wide expanse of dirt and sharp rocks that cut and bit at him. It seemed almost impossible that flowers grew here every spring. But Chris had said so, and he believed him.

Half afraid the house was sprouting legs and chasing after him, he cast frightened glances behind him, his tears flowing in earnest down his cheeks. But it remained rooted at the edge of the cliff, dark and foreboding and gargantuan.

“Tom!”

The shout came from the cabin. Tom whipped his head around and saw Chris running out to him, the front door thrown open. The sight lifted Tom as if with wings, his legs pumping harder, his sobs broken, hurrying to meet him and be safe. He was a foot from him when his knee gave out, pain twisting deep into his bones. But Chris caught him, slinging him up in both arms and crushing Tom to his chest. They sank to the cold ground, clasping each other.

“No, my sweetheart,” Chris murmured. “I felt it. Your fear. Your pain.” He pulled back sharply, eyes roving over Tom’s form. “Are you all right?” His eyes caught on the cut over Tom’s brow, on the blood splotching his skin, on his shivering, naked body under the flimsy coat hanging off him, and they narrowed in fury. He turned his gaze to the darkened manor in the distance. “I’ll burn it. I’ll _burn_ it to the ground.” Teeth gritted with rage.

“Leave it,” Tom said wearily, easing his weight back onto Chris, who accepted it gently. “My heart…Oh, Chris. It’s racing. I can’t…I can’t breathe.” Indeed, his chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, stutters of air that popped from his mouth as his anxiety grew. But Chris caressed his hair, careful with his injury.

“Come inside. I’ve got you now. You must calm down.”

Chest painfully tight, Tom hobbled a few jerky steps before Chris snatched him up behind the knees and carried him into the cabin, kicking the door closed.

Inside, the heat was immediate and seemingly eternal, wafting over him like a lover’s caress. Maybe it was the golden interior of the wooden logs, or the two fires Chris had simmering low – one in a hearth on the far wall, and one in the center of the room, a black pot hanging over it – or the butter-yellow curtains hanging over every window, but the entire place was welcoming and warm. Bigger than it appeared from the outside, there was one main space, large enough to hold two mismatched sofas and two worn, but comfortable looking armchairs. The ceiling rose high, drawing Tom’s eye to an upper alcove, a large nook with a bed and small table and easy chair, clearly Chris’s personal space. Under the nook was a stove and oven, another table with three chairs, cabinets and a closed door. Tom wasn’t sure where it led.

His eyes caught on a shattered mug on the floor, tea spilled everywhere. Chris must have dropped it in his haste to get to him.

Walking briskly across the large room, Chris carried him to a narrow set of stairs Tom hadn’t seen before and climbed up to the alcove.

“Darling, I’m heavy—.”

“You’re nothing of the sort.”

Heart still pounding with panic, Tom quieted and let Chris lift him up to the open air bedroom and lay him down on the bed. So soft, it swallowed Tom like a cloud.

“Hold still, let me get a look at you.”

Brows pinched, Chris cupped his cheeks and peered at the cut on Tom’s forehead, frowning at the blood drying on his skin. He opened the robe and paused at the dark bruise on his chest, flaring outward in a perfect circle.

“I did this,” he whispered, trailing a finger over the purple skin. But Tom, cold and still a little wild with terror, gave a hard shudder and Chris blinked. He felt around the knot forming on Tom’s knee, the skin mottling there as well, before examining his feet, muttering something. He left down the stairs again and Tom could hear him rooting around the cabinets in the kitchen below. Breaths jumping wildly, he tried steadying himself, eyes on the ceiling above him. But his pulse beat erratically at his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets he lay on, his legs stirring restlessly. Swallowing thickly, his eyes rolled every which way, trying to grasp every detail, catch sight of any spirits that might have followed him.

Chris came back a moment later with bandages and liniment.

“Enough of that now,” he whispered, sitting at Tom’s side. “They won’t come here.”

“Chris,” he murmured, and Chris covered the inner crook of his elbow with one big hand, a gesture of comfort. His skin soaked up his heat like a sponge. Teeth chattering, he tried speaking. “Chris, I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“Shh. There is nothing to apologize for.”

“I pushed you away. I told you to leave. I thought you were lying to me.”

Chris shook his head. “I wouldn’t. Ever.” He started unwrapping the bandages.

“I know,” Tom said, tears pooling in his eyes, regret and shame surging through his chest. “I know you wouldn’t. I was blind. Please forgive me.”

Setting the bandages and liniment aside, he leaned over Tom and braced his weight on both arms. Tom inhaled his scent, his hands lifting to grip Chris’s elbows. Meeting his eyes, Chris stared at him for a long time, Tom’s heart pumping fast.

“There is nothing to forgive. I understand you were frightened, and overwhelmed. You were upset.” He shook his head and continued unwrapping the bandages. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

Turned away now, shame heated Tom’s face, his body wound tightly as he remembered the things he’d said to Chris, the hard clench of his jaw, how very frightened he’d been inside that house.

“Don’t,” Chris whispered, tugging Tom’s face round with a long finger. “Don’t go away.”

“But you can follow.” When Chris said nothing, Tom blinked fast. “Can’t you?”

Chris sighed, the side of his waist pressed warmly to Tom’s. “Test me.”

“Test you?”

“Yes. Think of something only you would know and I will tell you what you just thought.”

Faced with it now, Tom wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but all that had happened recently hinged off this one fact about Chris. He was a mind reader, and Tom needed to accept that.

“Fine,” he whispered, and swallowed thickly.

_My father died when I was eleven._

“You were eleven when your father passed away.”

Heat flooded Tom’s face and he inhaled slowly, awe surging through his body as he looked upon Chris with wide eyes.

_My cat’s name was Twinkle._

Chris smiled. “Twinkle?”

_My first kiss was with a girl named Amber._

“I’m jealous of Amber.”

_I’ve never kissed a boy before you._

Chris’s eyes softened. He whispered his name gently and placed his palm over Tom’s cheek. Even though there was no verbal confirmation, Tom knew that he knew.

_I missed you._

Something tender broke over Chris’s face and he leaned down to kiss him. Tom had a brief moment to part his lips and inhale before their mouths were pressed together and he moaned. He was frozen and bleeding but his heart pumped quick and reckless, his trembling arms rising to embrace Chris. But when the skin on his brow pulled tightly, he broke away with a small noise of pain and Chris jumped back with an apology.

With confident movements, he cleaned the wound and wrapped a bandage around Tom’s head like a crooked crown. He massaged the area around his knee, muttering at the swollen skin before wrapping it with gauze too. Next were his feet, washed and rubbed in liniment. Chris pulled over them a soft pair of wool socks, to keep the ointment from smearing. He removed the dirtied robe Tom wore and dressed him in wool bottoms and another sweater of his, this one deep green. Bundled and warm, Tom curled into the pillow as Chris tucked the heavy blankets around his shoulders and under his chin.

“Soup is almost ready. I’ll be right back.”

Panic fluttered the pulse at his throat. He grabbed Chris’s wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To the house. I’m getting your things.”

“To bring here?”

“You’re not going back there. You’ll stay here now. With me.”

Tom had never even considered that Chris would want him here permanently. He hadn’t even considered running anywhere else, toward the town or specifically the bookshop. Chris was the only flame of safety in his mind darkened by fear and pain, and his instinct to place himself under his protection was immediate. And through the fog clouding his head, he still couldn’t believe he was in Chris’s cabin after all this time. It was a relief.

Chris studied him, silent. When their eyes met and they stared at each other for several long moments, he shifted closer. “Do you want to return…there?”

“No.”

His quick response brought another smile to Chris’s face, and Tom’s chest loosened a little more.

“You are welcome here. You’ve always been welcome here. I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries, before.”

Tom eased back into the pillow, exhaustion flooding through him. “I’m done with boundaries. They don’t exist between us. Understood?”

Grinning, Chris nodded. “Yes, my lovely aristocrat.”

Fussing at the blankets once more, Chris kissed the crown of his head and took the unused bandages and ointment downstairs. Blinking heavily, Tom gazed at the high ceiling, at the deep drop into the main room beyond the lip of the upper floor that held the intimate nook where Chris kept his bed. His last thoughts before falling asleep were of how incorrect first appearances seemed, and how with only a closer look, true character and promise were revealed. The scent of butterscotch followed him down.


	9. The Becoming

He woke to darkness edged in a faint golden glow. The fires below must be only embers, he thought sluggishly, blinking around. The air was warm and dry, comfortable. On the table was a bowl of soup – long cold – and rolls of bread with a tea cup and jar of honey. Affection swelled through him, he nearly cried.

Burrowed in the middle of the bed, the blankets and sheets soft around him, he felt like a bird in its nest. He wiggled his toes in the wool socks, oiled from the liniment Chris had rubbed on them, and smiled. Over his waist was a long arm, a hand curled into the sweater directly over his navel. Soft breaths fanned into the hair at the nape of his neck, a big body hunched against him from behind. Holding very still, Tom felt Chris breathe evenly. His chest was much wider than Tom’s, his hips rising just a little higher, legs tucked against his. Pressed against him like this, Tom enjoyed the safety Chris’s presence provided him, his bigger size and strength reminding Tom of mythical creatures who rose from slumber for the defense of innocents and all things good. Chris was such a marvel.

Very slowly, he shifted his arm and traced fingers over the pointed knuckles of Chris’s hand, squeezing and holding on. The movement roused Chris, who inhaled sleepily, digging his nose deeper into Tom’s hair.

“Darling,” Tom whispered, turning on his side to face Chris. Eyes still closed, Chris leaned closer and dug his face into Tom’s neck, mouthing gently at the soft, warm skin there. Tom gasped and reached to embrace him, heat sprouting through him at an alarming rate.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Chris drew back, eyes narrowing in question.

“For what?”

“For saving me. For forgiving me. For accepting me here, with you.”

Chris relaxed into the pillows, pulling Tom close, their noses an inch apart. “I missed you so much. I couldn’t stand knowing you were in there, possibly not eating, freezing, the house rising more and more from whatever dormant state it had been in for so long. Every morning I woke up and told myself that I would march in there and bring you here, where I knew you would be safe. But every morning I would see you ride down the hill to work, or I’d hear you reading, absorbed in something or other, and I would stay my hand. I didn’t want to disrespect the distance you wanted.”

Tom blinked away hot tears, managing to keep them from falling. “But that’s just it. I didn’t know what I wanted. I was confused, and angry. I was scared. Not having you beside me was alarming. But I couldn’t gauge what you had told me to be something of truth. I see now that it was, that you hadn’t lied to me about your ability. I see now that you’ve always been sensitive to my feelings and needs, always anticipating. And it was because you knew. You could see what I wanted, what I needed. And you delivered. I was cruel to you, and I’m sorry.”

Kissing both his cheeks, Chris nuzzled his face and whispered, “It is the past now.”

Sighing, Tom hugged him harder, and they held each other close, their murmurs quiet and private.

“Honestly, it wasn’t until I read more on the topic that I came to understand – through the diary and the books, more about the nature of the house and how unsafe I truly felt there.”

“Diary?”

He explained about finding his Aunt Minnow’s diary in the corner of the library, learning about her relationship with Chris and Dinah, and how they all lived here for so long together.

Something soft but heavy came over Chris’s features, and he stared off into the distance. “I loved her. Like a little sister. Her and Dinah. I’ve never been closer to two people before in my entire life. To have lost them both, so closely together, I was a bit distraught. I was short with you, at first. You were a stranger to me in this place where I had shared love and laughter with close companions.”

“And why did Dinah leave?”

“She left me a letter, stuck in the seam of the front door. It was full of her tears, I could feel them swarming off the page. Once Minnow was gone, she couldn’t remain either. And I understand. I was on my hunt when it all happened. Minnow’s mind was so feeble at that point, it wasn’t alarming for me not to hear her sometimes. Her voice sputtered in and out of my thoughts with no pattern. Just the weakness of age and the disease that killed her. Dinah was better about guarding her thoughts. I couldn’t always listen in. Her mind was stronger, fortified almost, but it seemed a natural talent, like flexing a muscle. I don’t think she was aware of it, or that I could hear them when they didn’t speak. Not hearing either of them while I was away wasn’t cause for alarm. In any case, I think I always believed them to live forever. The three of us here.” His eyes flickered to Tom’s, and in the dying light of the fires below, they appeared black. “But I wouldn’t have met you.”

“They had each other,” Tom said softly. “Were you never lonely?” A sudden thought crept into his mind, of Chris and the two women, of how he might have been welcomed by them in a more intimate way. While never mentioned in the diary entries, he still felt the sour burn of jealousy in his stomach.

Chris shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “No. It wasn’t like that. I’ve never…with a woman…” He trailed off, and even in the dim light Tom could see the blush on his cheeks.

“But with a man?” The relief sweeping through him was palpable.

“With a man, yes. A few times. Over the years.”

They breathed quietly, hands meeting under the blankets, fingers twining.

“I’ve…never.”

“At all? Anything?”

“Nothing apart from what we’ve done together.”

A pleased glint shone in Chris’s eyes and he leaned forward to graze his lips against Tom’s. “How have you managed to go untouched all these years?”

Tom laughed, letting their cheeks brush. He adored the feel of scruff. “Stubborn dedication to my academics. If anyone ever took notice of me, I don’t think I paid any attention. I was always hidden away in libraries and reading rooms, shadowing this or that professional.” Eyes down, he shrugged. “I never took a moment to contemplate what I now recognize as my blooming attraction to men. It just wasn’t something I had time for. Until I arrived here and you appeared on my doorstep and my chest grew so tight I could hardly breathe.”

A hand on his cheek, Chris said, “You’re being more forthcoming than usual.”

Tom huffed, but smiled. “What’s the point of censorship? You hear everything.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No.” He bit his lip. “It’s just…different. Like all my walls have been torn down and I’m left standing in the open, vulnerable and exposed.”

Chris didn’t say anything. Perhaps he knew there was nothing he could say, there was nothing he could do about his gift.

“But,” Tom continued. “I know you won’t abuse it. You’ve never in the past. If anything, it’s made you that much more helpful, bringing me water when I’m thirsty.”

They laughed quietly. “I am your servant,” Chris whispered.

The banked fire below gave a soft pop, drawing Tom’s eyes to the open air beyond the edge of the bed. “You went back to the house?”

“Not tonight. I will in the morning.”

“Good. I don’t want you in there alone. Especially at night.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I always know where they are.”

“How do you mean?”

“Over the years, when me and the girls were younger, when Minnow’s parents still lived, I could always hear voices in the house. Distant voices. I don’t think Minnow or Dinah could. They never mentioned it, and so I never did. The voices were very faint, like echoes on the wind. Only, they’re stronger now. I can hear them more clearly.”

Tom’s eyes were wide. “What do they say?”

“They want the house to themselves. They wanted you gone.”

“But…why don’t they like me? What have I done to them?”

“Do you want them to like you?”

Blinking away hot tears, he cursed himself for feeling angry. “No. I don’t care if they do. The house never wanted me, and I never wanted it. What I wanted was never inside that place.” He didn’t appreciate the idea of it, not being liked. He’d always counted himself a good, reasonable person, and he felt spurned by it all.

Chris was studying him, his eyes jumping from the bent of Tom’s brow to the stubborn line of his lips. “I like you,” he whispered, and Tom felt the first tear fall. It landed heavily on the pillow beneath their heads, and Chris pushed forward, kissing the rest away, whispering his adoration.

“You’re different. You’re much more sensitive to it all, I think, than Minnow or Dinah were. That you’ve heard them. That they’ve touched you –” He couldn’t finish the thought, his eyes flashing to the bandage wrapped over Tom’s forehead. The anger there was immediate and a little frightening.

“You said something just before you left. That day. Do you remember?”

“I told whatever was in that house not to touch you. I see now they didn’t listen.”

A chill crept over Tom’s back and he inched closer. Chris immediately wrapped both arms around him, lips on his eyelashes.

“You went for me, in the water.”

A small hesitation, and then, “Yes.”

“But you don’t like the water.”

“Didn’t matter. It was you. You were all I could see.”

They slept again, folding themselves around each other in the same way they had done in Tom’s bedroom, only here the air wasn’t freezing and he didn’t have the sinking sensation that something was crouched and waiting just out of sight. When next he woke, golden sunlight infused the air and he was alone. Below, he felt movement and smelled breakfast cooking. Moving gingerly, he sat up and placed both feet on the floor. Pain pricked at the tender underside and he gasped.

Something clanked below.

“Tom?” Chris came up the stairs, hurrying to kneel before him. He took Tom’s foot in hand.

“Careful, love. Your cuts aren’t healed.”

“Are they bad?” He grimaced.

“Some are deep, some are just scratches.”

Now that he was fully cognizant, a terrible itching had started up under the bandage on his forehead. “Can I remove this?”

“Let me see.”

The soiled bandage came unwrapped in quick loops, the cotton stained with shocking red rust.

“Easy,” Chris whispered, bending over him. “Hold still.” He examined his injury, touching the skin around the cut. “It’s closing. Another bandage will keep it clean.”

“It itches terribly.”

Chris stopped his hand from rising to his face. “Don’t scratch it.”

The renewed contact had Tom’s face heating once more, and he dropped his eyes, nodding. Chris wrapped another bandage over the cut, thinner than before. After, he helped him down the stairs and showed him to the door in the corner.

“Toilet. Bath. Anything you need. Food is almost ready. I have tea for you.”

Thanking him quietly, Tom limped into the room and closed the door behind him. It wasn’t as big as the master bath in the manor, but there was ample space to move about. The tubs were similar, but this one wasn’t as big, even if it seemed just big enough to hold them both comfortably. He blushed again and glanced at the door. There was a window beyond the tub, big and wide, displaying a view of Chris’s fabled garden. It amazed Tom what he hadn’t been able to see from his vantage point at the house, but the far side of Chris’s cabin – the side closest to the woods – was a vision of deep greens. The plants were tall and abundant, growing thick and lush. Even with the recent snowfalls, the garden showed no signs of withering or plague. He couldn’t doubt it now. There was magic on this cliff, with its spread of forest and pulsing ocean, and he had the sudden yearning to see the garden well into spring.

He relieved himself and washed his hands and face in the basin, rinsing his mouth last. When he stepped out a moment later, the table was set with two plates heaped with eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade, butter and juice. And beside it all, his steaming cup of tea. Chris was just setting down utensils when Tom hobbled up. He smiled and reached to embrace him carefully, squeezing him sweetly.

“I’m so happy you’re here with me.”

“My darling,” Tom whispered, and left a kiss on the warm skin just behind Chris’s ear.

They sat to eat, their chairs set so closely together their thighs brushed.

“Your garden is beautiful. However do you manage it in this weather?”

“I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve done for years. They’ve grown so tall, their roots are deep. And it’s all about how you tend to the soil.” His cheeks grew pink. “I go outside and I talk to them sometimes. They seem to like that.”

“You’re so sweet,” Tom said, reaching to grip his knee. This brightened the blush on Chris’s face, and he hurried to cover Tom’s hand with his own.

“What would you like me to bring from the house? Everything?”

Tom shook his head. “I want my books. My clothes. Your sweater, too. I left it on the chair in the bedroom. I think I dropped Minnow’s diary somewhere by the front door.” He paused, thinking. “And bring the money, of course. Anything else, the house can bloody keep it.”

As Chris set off across the meadow a while later, pulling the empty cart behind him, Tom stayed within the doorway of the cabin, wearing Chris’s clothes and his scent, watching him leave. Tugging the collar of the sweater higher up his neck, he let his gaze fall from the distant manor and the blinding sky, closing the door with a quiet thump.

It took Chris more than one trip to bring over Tom’s belongings, but he set about the task with a determined air, not stopping even for lunch. The horizon was pooled with mottled red when he finally pushed into the cabin with the last of Tom’s things. Together, they folded his clothes and put them away in drawers or hung them on hooks in the armoire and separate wardrobe where Chris kept his own things. He’d brought all the food, too, stocking the meat into his own ice box, bunching the bags of tea and herbs into a drawer to the side of the stove, the eggs and bread on the counter. Lastly, they stacked his books along the wall downstairs.

“I’ll build you bookcases. We can line this entire wall with them.”

“Thank you,” Tom whispered, slipping his hand into Chris’s.

He never returned to the house. It sat dark and inhospitable on the lip of the cliff, even the shine from the windows appeared dull, as if the house had turned in on itself, content in its vast emptiness. The outer paint looked coarse and unkempt, the weeds springing up around the base of the foundation. Had it always appeared so forlorn? Before long it would be overrun from neglect. But Chris seemed just as disinterested in it as Tom was, both keeping to the cabin and never acknowledging the house in speech or glances.

Chris kept the fires stoked at all hours, and by night the cabin was awash in faint orange light. Lying under the covers together, Tom stroked Chris’s arm lazily, his voice languid with sleep.

“I remember looking across the meadow and seeing your windows lit, and I always wondered if you were awake.”

Chris hummed, eyes closed. “Sometimes, yes. When I felt you were restless, I would be too.”

The fire crackled below and Tom shifted slightly, his cheek on the warm cotton of Chris’s night shirt. At the small of his back, long fingers grazed slowly over his nightgown, his skin tightening under the attention. His hearing sharpened to a distinct ringing, his hand curved over a hard waist, and he swallowed, exquisitely aware of the beat of a heart under his ear. Risking a glance up, he saw that Chris lay with his eyes open, posture so still Tom knew it to be for the same reason his own heart had begun a rapid beat.

It happened when their eyes met.

Wordlessly, Chris moved over him just as Tom lay back, their lips meeting in a crush of moans and stifled breaths. Opening his legs was simple instinct, Chris landing gently between them so that they both groaned, sweet and broken. Hands roamed freely, cupped buttocks, squeezed necks, clasped closer, _closer_ , their mouths leaving moist trails from jaws to throat hollows.

“Yes, my darling,” he heard himself say, voice husky and low. He hardly recognized himself _. Another kiss, another_. He twisted his hand into Chris’s hair as Chris dipped forward and claimed his mouth, their tongues sliding and sparking stars aflutter in Tom’s chest. Such were his dreams living in the house all alone, that he might with a simple reach be met with a natural, deep heat, and hands that met his justly. He gripped Chris’s hips, lifting his own and starting a slow, heavy rhythm they knew well. Chris’s breaths were heavy, arms wrapped under him, mouthing down the line of his jaw to the soft skin of his throat, kissing him there, whispering his name so that it sank beneath his blood like a web of lace. Eyes fluttering, Tom braced his head back and offered his throat to Chris, whose kisses tended to bruise quite beautifully, a string of them from ear to ear. To wear them free of the affliction of shame or fear of reprisal was as starbursts in a midnight sky.

And the loveliest thing was the weight of him, the slight suffocation. Blanketing him from nose to toes, Tom was made slightly breathless yielding under the hard bulk of him. But he was content – no, ecstatic – to do so. Already his lips were swelling from Chris’s arduous affection, the soft bristles of his beard tickling as he crept lower. How he missed this, these lips. He had dreamed of them, and Chris in his infinite understanding, must surely have known.

Reaching down, he stuck an arm under the hem of Tom’s gown and pushed it up, palming his chest, which jumped with stuttered breaths. Sliding his fingers through the patch of hair, Chris eyed him steadily, blinked at the shuddered moan Tom gave, and smiled. With only a slight graze of his thumb as warning, he squeezed and rubbed at Tom’s nipple until his back arched and the noise that fell broken and golden from his lips was etched in the air. As the tender nub hardened to a sensitive peak, heat rushed to Tom’s core and he stirred between his legs, nudging the flat of Chris’s belly.

Spread wide, Chris skimmed his hand over a pointed hip and ran it low over his naked flank, curving under the warm crook of his knee to hook him gently. Cautiously, Tom flexed his calf over the muscled bump of Chris’s shoulder, pleasure bubbling through him. Chris grinned and lowered his face to the seam between thigh and pelvis.

Tom’s vision went white. He heard the tight gasp, and knew he had made it himself, but he couldn’t pry his sight from the ceiling, so locked was he in his surprise. Nosing through the light curls bundled at his core, Chris moaned and pressed himself closer, his hand tightening over Tom’s thigh, and Tom’s need, settled under the oppressive mantle of his own fears, sprung loose, red with resolve and the refusal to be shackled.

“You’re beautiful,” Chris mumbled, dragging his mouth over his heavy sac. “I’ve always thought so. First time I saw you, I couldn’t breathe.” Tom’s eyes flashed down to him, catching Chris just as he lifted his gaze. “And you smell like spring.”

When he felt those beautiful lips gently kiss the tip of his cock, Tom jolted, crying out softly. Placing an arm across his hips, Chris held him down and continued, wetting the shaft with his saliva, tongue stroking down to the root and swirling at the slit. Shuddering, trembling, his body thrumming with light, Tom gripped at the sheets and watched himself be devoured, mind peppered with stars. With a quick movement, Chris pushed his gown further up and licked at him unimpeded, widening his mouth to suck at the tender sac, rolling them over his tongue, eyes fastened on Tom, who writhed and panted and prepared himself for what surely must be death.

But it never came. Chris lifted off him and into a crouch, breaths harsh, body coiled tight. Propping himself up on his elbows, Tom stared at him and waited, hard and aching. Looking at him closely now, he could see the strain in those shoulders, shaking slightly.

“Would you like me…” Chris started, licking his lips, “to get oil?”

Tom realized now what came next, realized now what the throbbing urge was he’d felt with every pulse of painful arousal had been. He could see Chris’s intent stretched against the loose weave of his pajama bottoms, and he knew with sudden clarity that he wanted it.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, oil.”

Planting a quick kiss on Tom’s lips, Chris shuffled off the bed and disappeared down the stairs. Lying back with a huff, Tom placed both hands on his chest and smoothed them down slowly, his skin buzzing with need. Lying flat against his pelvis, he was hard and swollen, the tip beading, winking with clear fluid. Breath held, he watched it drip and stick to his hip, connected by a thin line. The noise he made was small but Chris’s response floated up the stairs.

“I’m coming, love.”

He returned with a pot painted with pink and yellow flowers, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He crawled over Tom once more, their mouths bumping in hurried, rough kisses. Balancing the pot on the bed beside them, Chris pulled Tom to a sitting position and helped him out of his gown, gathering it in both hands and pulling it off his head. Completely naked, Tom took a quick breath, his arms inching over his middle.

“No,” Chris said softly. He pushed Tom’s wrists apart. “Don’t. It’s me. It’s only me.” He hurried with his own clothing, yanking off his shirt and pushing off his cotton bottoms.

Tom’s mouth fell open.

He’d certainly been able to surmise that Chris’s body was bigger and stronger than his own, but this was an image out of one of the many Greek mythology texts he’d studied in school. Wide shoulders, broad chest, a tapered waist. Arms, legs, _everywhere_ wrapped in smooth, curved muscle. Between his thighs hung the heavy fruit of his sex, sprung tall and visibly straining, bundled with hair. He was inching toward Tom, moving slowly, watching his face.

Swallowing loudly, Tom forced his gaze up and nodded again, whispering his name.

Collapsing back on the pillows, they half-rolled. Tom’s leg came up over Chris’s hip, his heel digging into the back of his thigh, dusted with golden down. Reaching for the pot blindly, Chris kept their mouths fused, their moans floating up to the ceiling. Wetting his fingers, he felt along the crease of Tom’s bottom and Tom grew very still. Clinging to him around the neck, Tom stared into his eyes and waited, body clenched tightly. Rubbing up and down with one hand, Chris fanned his other over the small of Tom’s back, soothing him.

“Easy, my little lord. Take a deep breath with me.”

Tom inhaled, and they breathed together, their chests expanding, lower bellies pressed flush. Chris explored a little more. Tom became slick with oil, Chris liberal with the amount he used to prepare him. His long fingers flexed and rubbed and, ever so carefully, pressed at his entrance.

Groaning, Tom jumped with surprise, but Chris kept him anchored with an arm around the waist. The tip of his finger pushed in slowly, made easier from the oil, and Tom’s eyes popped wide.

“You’re all right,” Chris breathed at his throat. “Let them in.”

He made a conscious effort to relax, loosening his muscles and sliding lower in Chris’s embrace, recognizing with the dawning clarity of sunlight on his face, that this was the first place he truly felt safe and comfortable. That it had always been Chris.

Chris rose over him and peppered his face with kisses and gentle nuzzles, moving his finger in and out, the sluice of oil making him burn.

By the third finger, Tom was as taut as a wire, vibrating with urgency and slight panic. His heart was a herd of horses, but he refused to turn away from Chris, who hovered over him and embraced him and kept him from ascending to the heavens, lost forever. His arousal coaxed to gentle flame, he remained hard and pulsing, dripping steadily. He wanted release by this man, only, always, and if it was as simple and instinctual as a bird learning to fly, he was ready to leap through the dim abyss to soak in this golden light.

Nevertheless, his nerves were shot.

“Chris, I –,” he said, eyelids flagging as Chris once more brushed something sensitive inside. “Chris, if I faint, just…”

But Chris chuckled and pressed their cheeks together, his voice rumbling over Tom’s ear. “You won’t faint. It’ll feel like it, but you stay with me, okay? Stay with me.”

Voice breaking, Tom nodded, and they embraced.

His legs were trembling by the time Chris propped himself up and started stroking himself with an oiled hand. But he let them fall open, feeling wanton and greedy for this new experience, uninhibited, spine sparking with stars. He wanted everything Chris would offer him.

Taking him by the knees, Chris rolled Tom’s legs up to his chest and stared down at him. He gave a small moan, soaking in the sight of Tom bent in half and exposed to him. Face red, Tom reached a trembling hand and gripped his leg, tugging him forward.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered hoarsely, scooting closer. “You are just…the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Made so fine, you’re exquisite.” Blushing, Tom relaxed back into the pillow, and smiled. Chris took himself in hand and angled in, the spongy tip bunching at Tom’s entrance. Tom gasped, sharp and quick, but he swallowed it down and lifted his head to watch as Chris slowly pushed in, breaching.

Panting, teeth gritted, Tom reminded himself to stay relaxed. But Chris was of ample size and no matter the preparation, the stretch was near painful. Still, Chris was careful and observant, studying Tom for signs of hesitation, his brows bunched in concentration, listening. But Tom nodded and let his legs fall open wide, bracketing where Chris knelt between them. Moving again, slowly, Chris sank deeper.

“Oh, sweet, sweet…” he grimaced as Chris settled in to the root, flesh giving that last desperate inch. “ _God_.”

Huffing raggedly, they waited several moments, eyes on the other, Chris frozen above him.

And how Tom trembled, lights dotting his sight like stars. _Please_ , he tried, teeth locked, voice trapped. _Please kiss me. Don’t be so far away._

Chris dropped on him immediately, mouth devouring his, muscles flexing almost obscenely and to Tom’s immense delight. Flattened by him again, Tom wrapped him in his arms and tried lifting his hips. Encouraged, Chris shifted back, dragging out of Tom with a delicious burn. When he snapped back in, Tom broke the kiss with a cry, his feet bobbing in the air as Chris began to move in earnest now, their mouths hungry on each other, small whimpers falling between. Cupping his head, fingers sliding in Chris’s long hair, Tom held on as his thrusts became longer, deeper, and they began rocking on the bed. Murmuring, they shared kisses and laughing breaths, both giddy with brimming emotions, his chest filling with light. Another thrust, and another, one more, and he might crack in two, brilliance spilling from him in bright beams. Arousal banked while Chris had prepared him, it flamed back with dangerous edge, throbbing between their bellies as Chris stroked it with every snap of his hips.

“Darling,” he sobbed, hands bracketing Chris’s face, their noses bumping.

Chris nipped his bottom lip lightly and Tom arched again, blood on fire. “I’ll keep you safe. Nothing will hurt you here. There’s only me. Only me.” He nosed along the edge of the cut on Tom’s forehead, his breaths like warm plumes.

“But you’re everything,” Tom gasped, flinching at a thrust so deep he felt Chris pulse inside him. “Can you sense it? Can you?”

“Yes, dearest. I’ve sensed it always.”

Moaning into another kiss, they moved and strained together, both hurtling toward a finish that Tom was anxious to meet. Chills erupted over him when Chris buried his face against his neck, breaths puffing as he worshipped him there.

And then the tightening started, a slow and tender coil, twisting down from somewhere behind his ribs, through the slim meat of his belly, lower, lower, winding thickly at the base of his shaft, and lower still where Chris shoved in again and again.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” he slurred, arm hooked around Chris’s neck, the other stretched out to grip at Chris, urge him faster, deeper.

“Look at this pretty face,” Chris whispered, eyes on him. “All flushed and eager for me.”

“Yes,” Tom said, lip trembling, eyes filling as he gazed at him. “I have never wanted anything more in my life than I’ve wanted you.”

“I’m yours. You’ll keep me?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Yes, dear heart.”

Lips meeting, tongues twining, Chris rocked him hard into the mattress and the line twisting and twisting tighter – frayed and unraveling in Tom’s core – finally snipped in two. He threw his head back and jerked in Chris’s arms, the pleasure roiling through him, suffusing through every vein and cord of sinew, lighting him from within so that he felt made of air and moonbeams, the crash of golden surf and sea foam air. He pulsed and throbbed and the hot gush of him brought him round, that and Chris’s sweet kisses, light as butterfly wings on his cheek.

“Lovely lord, lovely lord, come back to me.”

Blinking through a haze, Tom’s sight settled on Chris above him. And Chris, in raptured silence, was staring at him with desperate, wild eyes, eager to soak in his every gasp and flicker of lashes, the pink spread over his cheeks. It was as if he’d forgotten himself and his own pleasure to memorize the bloom and violent burst of Tom’s own.

“Oh, Chris,” he gasped, taking a deep inhale and feeling the weight of his heart. His embrace tightened. “Chris, I – it’s so much, so – so –.”

Snapping from his reverie, Chris planted a lingering kiss on his cheek, nuzzling. “I know, love,” he said, smiling patiently. “I know.”

He finished a moment later, stuttering his hips with a furrowed brow, sweat beading his lip as he pressed himself deep and climaxed with a shudder. Wide-eyed, Tom focused on the sensation pulsing inside him, amazed at how Chris swelled and grew impossibly larger, the hot, fluid spurts of his pleasure.

Breathless, their tremors shared and absorbed, sweating and slicked, their spasms slowly diminished. Slow to prickle his consciousness was the soft crackle of the downstairs fire, the far walls flickering into view as he blinked and returned to reason. The room was dark, outlined in pale red, the shape of Chris dark but familiar. He never wanted this to end, cognizant of the desire to remain in Chris’s heart like the fertile-leafed plants of the garden outside, their roots deep. He wanted to be the flower that reigned there in eternal bloom, dusted in the magic of their love.

Chris smiled, laying his head on the flat of Tom’s chest. He hummed. “You’ve grown romantic.”

Flushed, breathing shallow, Tom gave an exhausted grin. “I had not known the immense pleasure of it.”


	10. The Birds in Their Nest

The year spun into spring and Tom became enshrouded in pastel colors and fragrant winds. The forest burst with a myriad of greens and browns, the sturdy branches and moist leaves making the trees seemingly taller. They swayed with the winds, dancing and whistling in the early dawn, shifting sleepily come dusk. The meadow, as Chris promised, was a riot of color, the flower stalks grown nearly chest high, their pollen dusting the air in golden clouds. And the garden, unseen before by Tom the previous spring, was beautifully immense, a delirious pleasure. Abundant and taller than the cabin in places, he could walk through its center and be completely shaded from the sun, the path before and behind obscured by plants and flowers. It made him feel like he roamed in a fairy tale, the slow crawl of a fat caterpillar, the flutter lift of a butterfly, a heavy rose dipping its head and kissing his shoulder.

He settled in placidly in Chris’s cabin, his new home. The manor at the cliff’s edge sat dormant and dark, a stain on the canvas of sky. Vaguely, he hoped every crevice and seam melded shut with grime and disuse, that no one should suffer the misfortune of stepping foot inside. His anger and resentment toward the place would sometimes spring to the forefront of his mind so suddenly that he would slow what he was doing, gaze darting across the way. But Chris, ever present in his head, would read his surging mood and was quick to bring him back with peppered kisses and tight squeezes. Still, the terror and mounting anxiety and loneliness he’d endured while living there found their way into his dreams some nights, when he would moan and shift uneasily, sweat breaking out on his fevered skin. Caught in the images playing out in Tom’s mind, Chris was quick to hold him close and kiss him awake, his lips pressed to the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the long angle of his jaw, behind his ear where he could murmur in comfort and bring Tom back to him. And after, Tom would weep quietly, face pressed to Chris’s throat, not knowing how to verbalize what he didn’t understand himself. That he was happy to be free of the place and its oppressive environment, that he was sad he hadn’t been able to keep his aunt’s last gift to him.

“It’s all right, sweet boy,” Chris whispered, rocking him slowly and kissing his hairline. “It’s all right. She wouldn’t want you there now, not with how cruelly the house treated you. Trust me that she would want you safe and happy.”

“With you,” Tom mumbled, wiping at his tears.

“With me,” Chris agreed, squeezing him.

While Tom continued to work at the bookshop in town, Chris hunted game and maintained their property and home, leaving for long hours and returning with meat for the icebox. On his knees in the garden, he pulled carrots and cabbages from the earth, tomatoes growing on vines, potatoes bumbling up spilling dark soil. He made stews and cooked meat with dark gravies, their meals peppered with vegetables and fresh fruit. He kept the encroaching wildflowers at bay with weekly pruning, their small circled clearing neat and comfortable. They cooked together and drank tea in the evenings, Tom reading while Chris sang softly to the fire, tending it and keeping it bright. 

Tom would normally say that nights were for loving each other, but life with Chris meant he was showered with affection every hour of the day. Pulled into warm embraces, kissed on his nose and each hip, and everywhere in between, Chris lavished him with love and open-heartedness, Tom’s body as heavily in bloom as the succulent flowers of their tremendous garden. For as every dawn was born, Chris lay heavy between his legs, as every dusk darkened to night, he would press Tom to the table top and kiss bruises to what Chris endearingly called his ‘peach skin’. In the garden, at the edge of the woods, in their tub, before the hearth, beneath the wide arc of gray skies, Tom grew light in love.

Chris met him at the gate to the property every day, taking his arm and walking past the manor in silence, blocking Tom from having to see it at all. Chris was always there, listening with his mind, observing with his eyes, taking in every aspect of Tom’s personality and character, and loving him all the more for it. Save for the hours Tom was at work, they were nearly always together, gardening, walking through the trees, leaves caught in their hair. It took some coaxing, but Tom finally convinced Chris to accompany him into town for groceries, carrying a basket for their purchases. Hesitant to meet anyone’s eyes, Chris shadowed his every step, mumbling greetings to those friendly enough to say hello. It took several months, but by the end of summer, Chris was willingly approaching stalls and palming produce and tools, exchanging a handful of words with the locals. Tom was content, fully believing the townspeople were only just curious and not scornful, as Chris believed.

Mr. Wimple took to accepting Chris too, drawing him into the shop one day and showing him the work Tom had done with the displays and the organization, the new books he’d ordered from London that had been popular with the younger people in town.

“He’ll handle the shop just fine, I think,” Mr. Wimple said with smile, a hint that had Tom’s cheeks flaring pink with pride. Tapping his chin with a long finger, Chris winked at him and walked him home.

It was September and the last of the warm weather was fading with every passing day. They woke to the twittering of birds that bobbed and made their nests in the plants outside, sunlight bathing the hardwood floors.

“We slept in,” Tom murmured, his face mushed into the pillow. At his back, Chris hummed and traced the line of his spine with an open mouth, his hand curving under his hipbone and angling him back. Skin pebbled with chills, Tom stretched languidly as the sheets bunched around his knees and his bottom rose invitingly. It was mornings like this that he most loved to be handled and taken by Chris, muscles still sleepy, still loose, still wet, so that when Chris tugged him to his knees he could slip in so easily, no waiting, none.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tom gasped, a moan tumbling after, head hanging low as Chris snapped against him. The fill was too much sometimes, the stretch sending a jolt of light from the tip of his head to his groin, throat contracting as struggled to breathe. Chris was everywhere, a solid length in him that rendered Tom immovable, his head swimming with lines from literature that exulted the beauty in masculine strength. The bed was soft under his hands and knees, but the grip Chris had on his hips kept him balanced, and he pushed back gently. When they joined like this, and it was hard and fast and Tom’s chest tightened with the need to breathe and gasp and scream and moan, it was as if time stopped and only their twin hearts beat in the sun drenched room. There was wrapped the ribbon that had bound them from the beginning, the one that tugged when they were apart, alerting of the other’s presence wherever he was, slipping and rolling in loose knots over the spaces between them, a collection of heated memories and blissful bubbles of laughter and sweet sighs and the whisper of names, a litany, sweet worship.

Bouncing under the heavy weight of him now, the sun crowning his hair, Tom yearned to reach down between his legs and stroke himself, warmth and the feeling of belonging sweeping through him. But he waited, wanting only the solid penetration of Chris’s cock, the impossible length of it, from bulbous tip to swinging sac, Chris’s rhythm was smooth and fast, his grunts precious in Tom’s ears. A big hand slowly swept up his back, soothing the bunched muscles, calloused fingers shifting under his jaw and wrapping over his throat. Squeezing so slightly, it compromised Tom’s airway just a little, just enough to draw him into a deep arch, mouth parting to pant shallowly as Chris snapped into him, just enough for his blood to surge and pulse wildly, eyes rolling up.

Several moments of hard thrusts and Tom came, erection untouched, spurting onto the sheets as his body clenched and spasmed. His small whimper made Chris moan and grip his waist tighter. Tom almost always finished first, his passion spiraling, frenzied by the heavy touch and weight and scent of Chris, who was slowly learning the things that made Tom come violently undone. Seeing him in such a state, Chris's climaxes were quick to follow.

Giving Tom a moment for his tremors to calm, deep murmurs at the nape of his neck, Chris quickened his pace now, the slap of their flesh spurring bubbles of pleasure to flutter and pop within Tom. And then there was the pouring in, the stream of it, the flooding, and he was overflowed.

"Yes, please," he heard Chris groan, eyes down on him, watching and adoring, a broad thumb scooping the creamy excess and pushing it in again. His cock followed, smearing him and thrusting shallowly, pure possession.

Going limp, Tom collapsed onto the bed, Chris shuddering above him. Dust motes swirled in the shafts of light, and Tom blinked slowly, half unconscious. Pulling out gently, Chris leaned over him and kissed his cheek, huffing out a small laugh when Tom mewled quietly.

“Kitten,” he whispered, and went downstairs to prepare their bath.

Lying in the water, the window to the garden shrouded in shadows of red and purple and yellow flowers, their leaves like canopies, they hummed and washed their bodies, kissing and giggling and slipping under the surface, all sounds snuffed out.

Later that day, Chris took his ax and sharpened it to a gleaming shine.

“What are you up to?” Tom said, grinning, his bike creaking as he rode lazy circles around Chris. Logs strewn about, Chris sweating through his shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Tom hummed and pedaled and watched him, the most in love he’d ever been with anyone, anything.

“Chopping lumber. I’m going to build you a balcony.”

Tom braked hard, jerking to a halt. “A what.” He had already built Tom’s bookshelves, beautiful and gleaming and perfect. And now this, it was too much –

“I know you want one,” Chris interrupted with a smile. “So I’ll give it to you.” He lifted both arms above his head and brought the ax down with a loud thwack. Tom flinched at the sound, staring raptured. Only a little out of breath, Chris said, “You love facing the woods. I see you standing in the garden, with your eyes closed, calm and quiet.”

It was true that he did. It was better to face the woods rather than the opposite way, where there was cliff and sea and daunting mansion.

“But it’s so much work,” he finally managed to say, and Chris leaned the ax head on the ground, hands crossed over the handle. He smiled.

“It won’t be difficult. Trust me.”

He worked all day, sawing the wood and sizing it, sanding it down and making it smooth and even. The next morning, so early even for the sun, he started on measuring the wall of their bedroom, the one facing the woods. Lamp light burning low, he scratched ticks into the wood with a charcoal nub, and from the bed Tom watched him, drowsy and cocooned in blankets. By noon there was a hole in the wall. By late afternoon the bare-boned skeleton of the balcony was appearing, Chris pounding away with the hammer, violent strikes that echoed over the meadow and away over the cliff.

He didn’t finish until close to midnight, the oil lamps lit high, bubbles of light that allowed him to finish the hinges and handle of the new door that led outside. Exhausted from simply watching him, Tom brought him tea and meats with soft bread, dabbing his face with a kerchief, praising his strength and ingenuity. Shrugging with a gruff blush, Chris accepted Tom’s many cheek kisses and continued working. Over the next several days, he rubbed oil on the railings and base, stomping on the wooden boards to test the give, and Tom brought out their rocking chairs and blankets to sit cozy with tea before sunset.

“You’re positively Herculean, my love,” he whispered the next night, snuggled up against him under the starry sky.

Chris grunted, but Tom heard the smile in it. A lush floral fragrance wafted up around them from the garden below, and he took a deep, calm inhale. A breeze rose off the sea, brisk and barbed, cutting over them lying on the balcony. Tom burrowed himself deeper into Chris’s side, nosing into his neck and sighing. The salve he had rubbed into the knotted muscles of Chris’s neck and waist and knee joints smelled of honey and primrose. Chris tugged the blanket higher on his shoulder.

“You’re cold, sweetheart. Would you like to go in?”

“Hmm, no,” Tom said softly. The sun was theirs, the soil rich and hot with it, plumes of heat rising to soak their feet at noon, the plants and flowers heavy-headed and glowing with it. Another winter was coming, but he knew it would be different this time. The manor had absorbed so much of what he considered the force of his life, with cold and damp and hollow darkness. It amazed him that he’d lived there at all, even a day. Compared to the warm honey walls of Chris’s cabin with its large windows and fairy garden, is it any wonder that he couldn’t picture himself anywhere else? And Chris was the warmest being he’d ever had the distinct pleasure of encountering, of holding and trusting and knowing quite willingly, that where his heart beat so would be Tom’s home. “No. Let’s stay for a while longer. The night is lovely.”

“Anything for you, dear heart,” Chris said, shifting onto his side and pulling Tom into his chest. His eyes in starlight were prisms of adoration.

“And anyway,” Tom said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again.”

Laughing into each other, they nestled into the cocoon of blankets and looked for falling stars, the length of ribbon between them snug tight and pulsing evenly, evenly.

One pulse, two, a lifetime. 

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


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